Tag Archives: Mary Oliver

A Journal of the Plague Year: #11

It’s Saturday here in Portland, Oregon. More likely than not, it’s Saturday where you are as well. I don’t have a lot to report today, except to say that we are two full weeks into our extended Spring Break. We are all healthy here. A little stir crazy. I have been behind the wheel of an automobile two times in two weeks. I think it is not an exaggeration to say that the dogs have had walks at least 12 days in a row. The dogs report that they are loving the new normal. Ruby tells me that there is someone living inside the wood pile. Every time she goes out there she stands in front of it and whines, roots around with her snout at the nooks and crannies between logs and whines some more. Then she’s happy to chase balls around. Whoever they are, they’re in there good and proper, are not vulnerable to dogs in the day time.

As this is my last official weekend before work as a high school English teacher begins again, I’m still trying to get my head wrapped around a remote 6 hour work day without classrooms and students. Luckily (I think), I have been using the google technology that allows me to assign stuff, share stuff, and read stuff my students write–all in the digital realm, in real time, using the magic of the inter webs. So I really don’t have any problem imagining a world in which material is prepared, instructions given, assignments assigned, and feedback administered within this realm, without ever seeing the whites of their eyes. I don’t like it, but I can imagine it. And I can imagine how, if everything was cooking on all cylinders, and if every one of my 170 plus or minus students was playing along, I would definitely have 6 hours of work to do every day. But again, as I understand it, the material that we will be giving to students is in the spirit of “providing an opportunity.” It follows that many of them will just not take the opportunity we provide. And I’m not recording or grading? And the semester credit will be given based on what? Less than half a semester’s worth of the stuff they did before all this went down? Anyway, I have lots of questions. I am hopeful that most of them will be answered in the three days worth of preparation we have next week before the intended roll-out. I think about how in a few days I’m going to be walking into my son’s bedroom while he is knee- deep in some game play to tell him, “Hey son, stay here and go to school!” Best case scenario, I imagine, is that the Governor’s school closure until April 28th does not have to be extended. Then, at least, we would have a month with students in a physical space, in community, where we are able to see and speak to them, laugh with them, and learn.

I was dreaming about this poem last night, a playful meditation on loss by Elizabeth Bishop, “One Art,” a villanelle, btw, if you’re interested in formal structures. And it’s a friend’s birthday today, Tracy Youngblom, a terrific poet, and I asked her if she had a poem she’d like read on the occasion, and she chose a poem called “Lilies” by Mary Oliver. So today we get two poems for no extra charge. And I was thinking about how, of the 10 poems I’ve read, 8 of them were written by dudes, so I thought it was time to get some more women up in here. I hope, wherever you are, that you are well, that you stay well, and that you enjoy these two readings. Thanks for being here. It means a lot.

 

6 Comments

Filed under Education, Poetry, Reportage, Teaching, The Plague Year

A Journal of the Plague Year: #4

It’s only been four days, but I miss my students, I miss my student teacher, I miss my colleagues, and I miss that building, oddly enough, perhaps, the most constant and stable thing in my adult life, my school and my classroom like another home. Meanwhile, the sun shines, the dogs get another long walk. Another beautiful day on which to ponder this darkness.

Every once in a while, in my professional capacity, I get riled up about something. On Wednesday, March 11, a single day before we learned schools would be closed, I attended a morning staff meeting that irked me to such a degree that I did the thing I usually do in such circumstances: I began an open letter in order to air my grievances. I was committed and passionate and insistent about all the things that went (as I perceived them) wrong during that particular staff meeting. I had decided to share it with my bosses. I spent hours on this thing. And almost immediately after learning that schools would be shut down, my indignation totally deflated.

If nothing else, in these strange times, incomparable for me to anything in my entire experience on the planet, we tend to winnow through stuff that concerns us to find what we hold most dear, find most important and life-giving, and let the rest fall away like chaff. Maybe someday, that indignant feeling about bad staff meetings in an otherwise idyllic working environment (outside of the intense difficulty of the job) will bubble back up, and I may have an opportunity and an obligation to speak. But right now, all I want to do is read, write, make music, love my family, do the odd thing that needs doing around the house and yard, walk the dogs, ride the bike, and recite poetry.

I seem to be gravitating toward my all time favorite poems, as one does. This one: the first Mary Oliver poem I ever heard and the one I come back to over and over, “Wild Geese.”

8 Comments

Filed under Education, Poetry, Reportage, The Plague Year, Writing and Reading

#258: Waiting for the Leaves

Oaks

(after Mary Oliver)

I’m sitting in the office space
that adjoins my classroom
while my student teacher is
wrangling with a group of freshmen,
and I am thinking about my oak trees.
In this stark, small, white room, lit
with florescent tube lights, desk
littered with papers, student work to
grade, a stack of books about teaching,
and a small library of poetry,
I’m thinking about my oak trees.
Early April and the leaves have
not yet emerged from their hiding
places but it’s so close now I can
almost hear their rustling even
from where I sit in this sterile office.
The evidence of┬álast year’s performance
is everywhere: the grass turned to moss,
the moss turned to mud from the
excessive rains, the grass again
doing its level best to recover this
month, to flourish in May, only to
brown out in July and August
and then once again in the fall
to be buried with oak leaves,
leaves that refuse composting,
leaves that never deteriorate,
leaves that must be removed
if one wants to prevent their
absolute dominion over the ground.
Somehow it seems wrong, unjust,
our battle with the leaves and the trees.
They were here first, especially
these oaks, long before the roads,
the houses, the streetlights,
long before there was such a thing
as a driveway or a lawn.
In spring and early summer these
trees give us the shade, the green,
an ecosystem, an entire universe
hovering above our heads, a
sustaining, life-giving thing.
In return, we feel it necessary
in the fall to dig out from
underneath this bounty.
Here I am, though, now,
in my office lit with this
terrible light, in my head
a slight ache from the eye
strain, and I think of my trees,
and all of us
waiting for the leaves again.

Leave a comment

Filed under Poetry