Word Play

As an 8^th grade language arts teacher, I introduced my students to the world available to them in their own minds, and one of my favorite activities was the “Word of the Day” exercise.  I’d put a random, or sometimes carefully chosen word on the board.  Most times I’d provide a definition and challenge the kids to look for it in their daily reading or to use it correctly in their own writing.  Sometimes I’d use SAT words.  Other times I’d use words I ran across in my own reading.  “Vertiginous” for example.  I’d tell them, “I don’t know what that means, but here it is in a sentence.”  I provided hints for them to use themselves to discern meaning:  vertigo means dizzy.  Perhaps vertiginous means dizzying enthusiasm or passion.  I spoke frequently of the fun of words, the joy of their sound.  Perspicacious.  My dad always said this word.  I’m not sure he knew what it meant because I don’t recall him ever using it in a sentence, but I love the sound of it.  Erudite.  Verisimilitude.  Giggles and jiggles.  Fuzzy.  Perseverance.  Nativity and naiveté.  Lump.  Lemon.  Luscious.  On and on.  I collect words like a baseball fan collects players’ cards.  I stir fry the words together in a skillet, serve them with some drama to add flavor, and enjoy a poem for dessert.

Enchanted Morning

Listening to the enthusiasm of friends' descriptions of a poetry workshop in Menifee, I decided to venture in.  I love learning new things, stretching those little cells in my brain, and pushing myself beyond my comfort zone.  The first draft of this poem was seven lines long.  Draft two was about 30 or 35, and the workshop leader said, "You're used to writing prose, aren't you?"  So with three workshops under my belt, with suggestions from the group and several more revisions, here is the result:

Enchanted Morn

On this clear, post-rain winter morning

            Mother Nature awakens her children.

Mountains cloaked in fine white netting stand tall

            Greeting her majestically while

            Sweeping away gray cobwebs of dreams.

Mother’s sun arises,

            Bathing her earth in loving warmth

            Caressing her dry hills with golden affection and

            Kissing her sky in radiant roses and ginger blues.

Birds joyfully sing “Good morning”

            Dancing on fragile wind-blown branches.

            Emerging buds eagerly raise their heads like hungry chicks.

Grasses, still in evening garments of sparkling dew,

            Weep with gladness at the opening dawn.

Looking at Photos

Yosemite Summer

The year was 1983 and the Eurhythmics’ hit, Sweet Dreams are Made of This, was replaying on a continuous loop in my head.  My medium brown hair was frizzed into a not-so-stylish-on-me Afro that made my head look huge stuck as it was on my tall lanky body.  The frayed edges of my butt-hugging pair of skin-tight Levi cut-offs tickled my darkly tanned long legs.  Look at you checking out my legs coming right up outta my hiking boots, I thought as I looked at my husband’s hungry grin.  As an athlete primed for racing, he was barely breathing hard behind the camera.  I wore a blue and white plaid shirt with sleeves rolled up, shirttails tied at the waist over a white tank top thinking I looked like quite the outdoor girl.  My left arm is wrapped around our oldest son, Brent with his baseball cap crooked way back on his Buster Brown haircut smelling of campfire smoke and sweat but looking proudly at the camera as he smiled and snuggled securely under my arm. Brian, who was five and two years younger than his older brother, had mischief in his eyes while he sat precariously on my lap—messy hair, dirty face and all.  

           

Our young family had just hiked up the Mist Trail in Yosemite National Park.  The trail winds almost straight up beside the cascades created by Vernal and Nevada Falls.  We stopped to rest, and for a photo opportunity, at a viewpoint that took in a small expanse of Yosemite Valley along with Yosemite Falls exuberantly bursting out and over the face of its granite cliff.  Outdoor girl I may have been, but I gratefully sat down still breathing hard from our trek and wiping the sweat dripping into my eyes.  I hugged my precious little treasures to my breast, smiled into the camera and nodded my head slightly:  Indeed, sweet dreams are made of this. 

Pat Conroy Inspiration

In My Reading Life, Pat Conroy speaks of the courage and insecurities writers face.  He also speaks of the necessity of solitude that I most definitely relate to.  Solitude allows me to replenish my soul.  Conroy’s words make me want to write.

            

Have you ever noticed how much noise there is in our lives?  Right now on an otherwise quiet Sunday morning, our next-door neighbor is mowing his lawn, a single bird is chirping in a nearby tree.  I hear a car engine racing too fast in a residential neighborhood sounding like a lone car racing around a track.  There is also an incessant hum or buzz or rush of air surrounding my ears with constant and close noise.  Occasionally, I hear a train whistle on the tracks along the 91 freeway and a jet as it rides the invisible sky road to Orange County airport.  This is why our trips to Montana are so glorious.  It’s actually quiet there and while there is noise, it’s the racket of a leaf falling from a tree, the breeze pushing it away from its home.  It’s the soft background babble of the creek next to our campsite; kids playing catch in the meadow near enough to be seen but not so close as to interrupt my mental peace.  Sometimes, hiking a trail, we’ll stop—“Sh.  Do you hear that?  It’s silence.”  It’s so quiet it refreshes my ears.  It’s so free of cement, traffic, people that my eyes relax and soak up the greens, browns, blues, surprises of reds and yellows.

            

I want to write.  I want solitude in which to do it.  I want nature outside my cabin window inviting my words from their hiding places.  I want my pencil always sharp so when words become clear, my pencil can cut them and weave them into something that is meaningful.  I want to write so that I can leave a part of myself behind when God calls me home.  I want my children and grandchildren and great-grandchildren to know me as a writer.  To know who I was in words only I can express.