Saving The Only Life I Could Save

 I love that there is a national focus on poetry each year in April. I love teaching students to read, apppreciate, and write poetry, I love immersing myself in the beauty of  poetry, and I love to remember the poetry my mother read me before I went to sleep at night. In celebrating poetry this month, this is one of my favorites. Why? In the last few years I have saved the only life I could save.

The Journey

by Mary Oliver

One day you finally knew
what you had to do, and began,
though the voices around you
kept shouting
their bad advice –
though the whole house
began to tremble
and you felt the old tug
at your ankles.
“Mend my life!”
each voice cried.
But you didn’t stop.
You knew what you had to do,
though the wind pried
with its stiff fingers
at the very foundations,
though their melancholy
was terrible.
It was already late
enough, and a wild night,
and the road full of fallen
branches and stones.
But little by little,
as you left their voices behind,
the stars began to burn
through the sheets of clouds,
and there was a new voice
which you slowly
recognized as your own,
that kept you company
as you strode deeper and deeper
into the world,
determined to do
the only thing you could do –
determined to save
the only life you could save.

-Mary Oliver, from Dream Work

As I celebrate National Poetry Month for the next four weeks, what are some of your favorite poems?

The House of Belonging

 Every Sunday I look forward to reading Maria Shriver's Sunday Paper. The purpose of this online newsletter is to " inspire hearts and minds, move humanity forward, live your wildly authentic life." Each week she writes an essay "I've Been Thinking" , which has been difficult for her in recent weeks because of all the heartbreaking events in our world. 

The newsletter also has interviews, book recommendations, recipes, and articles of interest. She always ends her newsletter with a poem. One poem she posted yesterday really resonated with me.

I love the last two lines. " There is no house like the house of belonging." I live in a house of belonging. I ask friends and family to come visit, I host dinners here, and I have surrounded myself with all the things I love. It is a small house, but it suits me just fine, It is my place of adult aloneness. 

I live with a dog and a cat.  I spend a lot of time alone and I find peace in the aloneness. Friends and family are close when I want companionship. I do miss my husband every day. I am blessed that he taught my how to embrace a well-lived life.

This is my house of belonging. I have worked diligently the last seven years to create a house that is surrounded inside and out with all the things I love in life. I definitely belong here.

You can find The Sunday Paper here.

The Rivers of My Life

The North Fork of the Coeur d' Alene River

Once again National Poetry Month has come to an end. I enjoy and celebrate poetry all year long, but I always focus more on my favorites in April. The last poem I chose is by poet and author William Stafford. I have stood by many rivers during my lifetime.  A river is a good place to pause and reflect on the passage of time as the still beauty of the current passes over the rocks. What I have I done with this life?  I have tried to live it the best I can.

Spokane River

South Fork of the Coeur d'Alene River in Kellogg

Ask Me

Some time when the river is ice ask me
mistakes I have made. Ask me whether
what I have done is my life. Others
have come in their slow way into
my thought, and some have tried to help
or to hurt: ask me what difference
their strongest love or hate has made.

I will listen to what you say.
You and I can turn and look
at the silent river and wait. We know
the current is there, hidden; and there
are comings and goings from miles away
that hold the stillness exactly before us.
What the river says, that is what I say.

William Stafford

Clark Fork River

Kettle River

Chewack River in Winthrop, WA where Everett spent many hours during his childhood.

The Clearwater River

Pleasures of Ordinary Life

 

I am so thankful that years ago, especially when digital cameras came out, that I took time to capture photo images of my ordinary life. When you hear the words ordinary life you might think it describes a ho hum, boring existence. 

This poem helped me realize there are many pleasures in living an ordinary life. I didn't get that PhD I dreamed of, I never purchased a fancy car, I have never traveled abroad, I don't own expensive jewelry.

I haven't published my writing, learned a foreign language, or filled a closet with a hundred pair of shoes, but guess what? I have lived a sweet, sweet ordinary life.

The Pleasures of Ordinary Life

I've had my share of necessary losses, Of dreams I know no longer can come true. I'm done now with the whys and the becauses. It's time to make things good, not just make do. It's time to stop complaining and pursue The pleasures of an ordinary life. I used to rail against my compromises. I yearned for the wild music, the swift race. But happiness arrived in new disguises: Sun lighting a child's hair. A friend's embrace. Slow dancing in a safe and quiet place. The pleasures of an ordinary life. I'll have no trumpets, triumphs, trails of glory. It seems the woman I've turned out to be Is not the heroine of some grand story. But I have learned to find the poetry In what my hands can touch, my eyes can see. The pleasures of an ordinary life. Young fantasies of magic and of mystery Are over. But they really can't compete With all we've built together: A long history. Connections that help render us complete. Ties that hold and heal us. And the sweet, Sweet pleasures of an ordinary life. Judith Viorst

Woman Who Loves Gardening

 

I wrote this poem in June of 2007. Reading it again today brought back memories of gardening with Everett at Martin Creek. Enjoy!

Woman Who Loves Gardening

I have dirty nails

and rarely paint them, living out

my long growing season in the flower garden, trellises

giving view to clematis, climbing Peace

where aromatic flowers

grow in profusion.

I pull the weeds

in the early morning

gritting my teeth

wiping sweat from my brow

and listening

to footsteps of my husband

coming in range to help.

Sun makes my face red;

each sniff with my nose

leaves lily pollen behind.

When I rest it’s the beauty

that causes anxiety to shake loose

from a woman in need

of a quiet place to retreat.

Christy Woolum

June 20,2007

The Cataldo Mission: A Single Photograph

 

Have you ever been at the right place at the right time with your camera or phone and captured a  perfect picture? Weren't you happy that you took that single, special photo? I take lots of photos so I have had this experience happen often. 

This poem describes so much about the above picture. This image is the inside of the Mission of the Sacred Heart, or Cataldo Mission, a historical landmark in Cataldo, Idaho.  I was at the right place at the right time.  If you have been to this mission, you understand exactly what I am talking about. If you haven't been to this sacred spot it is a "living tale beyond words" . I enlarged this photo and it is hanging in my SheShed.

A single photograph

—portrait of the moment—
is an inexhaustible epic,
a living tale beyond words
superior to a hundred volumes
written and fixed. 

A photograph
is consciousness painting,
the instant’s art that opens
on the unbounded vistas
of the inner life. 


-Daisaku Ikeda

I first posted this poem in April of 2019. I read it again tonight and it reminded me how much my sister has given me, especially in the last few years. My dear sweet husband Everett got sick and spent a lot of time in the hospital. After four weeks of working to get better, he closed his eyes, said good-bye and went to heaven. My sister was there for me. She was there while he was in the hospital, She was there to take care of Riley. She made me meals. Tasks emerged as I adjusted to life alone. She helped me move furniture, plant seeds, got me out of the house, made me laugh, and listened to me as I shared my sorrow. Along with others she made his Celebration of Life just what I wanted.She was my sunshine when I was surrounded by the dark. I am blessed to have my sister Carol.

My Sister, My Friend

Leann Stiegman

To me you are an angel in disguise.
Full of intuition, you are intelligent and wise.
Always giving and helping through good times and bad.
You are the best friend I've ever had.
If I had one wish, it would surely be
To give you as much as you've given to me.
Though I've put our relationship through some cloudy days,
You've been my sunshine in so many ways.
Through trials and tests, right by me you stood,
And you gave me your hand whenever you could.
Thank you so much, my sister, my friend.
My gratitude for you has no end.

A Kitchen Memory

 There are so many memories I have of my mother  in this kitchen. I remember her standing  there frying bacon, stirring potato soup, heating up Campbell's soup, putting an apple pie in the oven, and always cleaning the drip pans under the burners when she was done. 

A Kitchen Memory

My mother is peeling an apple over the sink,
her two deft hands effortless and intent.
The skin comes away in the shape of a corkscrew,
red and white by turns, with a shimmer of rose
where the blade in its turn cuts close: a blush,
called out of hiding like a second skin.
Now the apple fattens in her hand;
the last scrap of parings falls away;
and she halves and sections the white grainy meat,
picks up another apple, brushes back
the dark hair at her temple with the knife hand.
The only sound is the fan stirring the heat.
- Roy Scheele

The last line of this poem didn't happen in our kitchen. Mom didn't have a fan stirring the heat. She just baked, fried, and scrambled no matter how hot the temperature  was.  Every single time.

Remember Me

The poem today is dedicated to my husband Everett. I can hear him reading the lines in my mind . He was my vase for the bouquets I created. When I wanted to photograph one, a bouquet turned out better if he held them in his hands. I miss my favorite vase JEJ every day.

Remember Me

by Anthony Dowson

Speak of me as you have always done.
Remember the good times, laughter, and fun.

Share the happy memories we've made.
Do not let them wither or fade.

I'll be with you in the summer's sun
And when the winter's chill has come.

I'll be the voice that whispers in the breeze.
I'm peaceful now, put your mind at ease.

I've rested my eyes and gone to sleep,
But memories we've shared are yours to keep.

Sometimes our final days may be a test,
But remember me when I was at my best.

Although things may not be the same,
Don't be afraid to use my name.

Let your sorrow last for just a while.
Comfort each other and try to smile.

I've lived a life filled with joy and fun.
Live on now, make me proud of what you'll become.

Hope

 

It is hard to completely turn off the images, the words, and the emotions of the war that continues to rage across the ocean. Today I took a nature walk and prayed and thought about hope. I hold hope in my heart. It calmed me a bit.

Hope     

   
It hovers in dark corners
before the lights are turned on,  
it shakes sleep from its eyes  
and drops from mushroom gills,  
it explodes in the starry heads  
of dandelions turned sages,  
it sticks to the wings of green angels  
that sail from the tops of maples.    
It sprouts in each occluded eye  
of the many-eyed potato,  
it lives in each earthworm segment  
surviving cruelty,  
it is the motion that runs the tail of a dog,  
it is the mouth that inflates the lungs  
of the child that has just been born.    
It is the singular gift  
we cannot destroy in ourselves,  
the argument that refutes death,  
the genius that invents the future,  
all we know of God.    
It is the serum which makes us swear  
not to betray one another;  
it is in this poem, trying to speak.    
   
Lisel Mueller

 This poem inspired me today to revisit my photos of tulips. By the volume of photos I have saved of  tulips, it is easy to guess it is one of my favorite spring flowers. 

Tulips

BY A. E. STALLINGS

The tulips make me want to paint,

Something about the way they drop

Their petals on the tabletop

And do not wilt so much as faint,

Something about their burnt-out hearts.

Something about their pallid stems

Wearing decay like diadems,

Parading finishes like starts,

Something about the way they twist

As if to catch the last applause,

And drink the moment through long straws,

And how, tomorrow, they’ll be missed.

The way they’re somehow getting clearer,

The tulips make me want to see—

The tulips make the other me

(The backwards one who’s in the mirror,

The one who can’t tell left from right),

Glance now over the wrong shoulder

To watch them get a little older

And give themselves up to the light.

Source: Poetry (June 2009).

There's a Poem in This Place.

I don't need a special month the focus on poetry because I enjoy it every month of the year. What is nice about designating April as National Poetry Month is it brings an awareness to poetry for readers that may not always choose poetry.

My love for poetry started when I was very young. Mom read us selections of poetry many nights at bedtime from a book I still own. There are many titles in this collection that I taught to students and still read today. I also had teachers that made poetry a part of our classroom instruction. I especially remember Mrs. Tregoning highlighting a poem each month. She would read it, we would copy it in our best penmanship, then illustrate it. These would hang on the wall in the classroom. We would also memorize each poem and recite it in front of the class. In October she had us create Halloween poems. Mine was called "The Haunted House" and  I got to join other classmates and read mine over the intercom on Halloween day.

Poems capture strong images with fewer words. They can also help us honor an historic event with rhythm and rhyme."Listen my children and you shall hear of the midnight ride of Paul Revere." I read and listened to " The Star Spangled Banner" as a poem before I ever learned to sing it.  I loved jump rope rhymes when we played jump rope on the playground. When I was that age I don't know if I thought of them as poems. Poetry was definitely an avenue to my love for words. 

The poem below is one Mom loved. She read it to us many times. Sitting here in the room that was my childhood bedroom I can hear Mom's voice reciting this poem like it was yesterday.

 

I look forward to revisiting childhood poems, sharing some of my favorite poems, and discovering new ones this month. 

The 2022 poster was designed by eleventh grader Lara L. from Saunders Trades and Technical High School in Yonkers, New York, who was the winner of the 2022 National Poetry Month Poster Contest, and features a line by 2021 Presidential Inaugural Poet and 2017 National Youth Poet Laureate Amanda Gorman.

The Pleasures of Ordinary Life

As I get older  I embrace the pleasures of ordinary life. I had a good teacher. Everett was a master at enjoying those pleasures.  We had "a long history. Connections that help render us complete.
Ties that hold and heal us."

I have loved to capture my ordinary life in photos. 

The Pleasures of Ordinary Life

I've had my share of necessary losses, Of dreams I know no longer can come true. I'm done now with the whys and the becauses. It's time to make things good, not just make do. It's time to stop complaining and pursue The pleasures of an ordinary life. I used to rail against my compromises. I yearned for the wild music, the swift race. But happiness arrived in new disguises: Sun lighting a child's hair. A friend's embrace. Slow dancing in a safe and quiet place. The pleasures of an ordinary life. I'll have no trumpets, triumphs, trails of glory. It seems the woman I've turned out to be Is not the heroine of some grand story. But I have learned to find the poetry In what my hands can touch, my eyes can see. The pleasures of an ordinary life. Young fantasies of magic and of mystery Are over. But they really can't compete With all we've built together: A long history. Connections that help render us complete. Ties that hold and heal us. And the sweet, Sweet pleasures of an ordinary life. Judith Viorst

The Good News

 

It is tough to be surrounded by bad news. Families trying to survive a hurricane by heading to their attics, soldiers coming home in coffins draped in American flags, wildfires continuing to burn up more of our precious land.  As I pray in earnest for sick friends, for a woman who just lost her mother, and for people close to me dealing with personal issues I search for something positive. Then I remembered this poem and it reminded me of its message. 

There is always good news. Find a special edition. Do it today.

The Good News

They don’t publish
the good news.
The good news is published
by us. We have a special edition every moment,
and we need you to read it.
The good news is that you are alive,
and the linden tree is still there,
standing firm in the harsh Winter.
The good news is that you have wonderful eyes
to touch the blue sky.
The good news is that your child is there before you,
and your arms are available:
hugging is possible.
They only print what is wrong.
Look at each of our special editions.
We always offer the things that are not wrong.
We want you to benefit from them
and help protect them.
The dandelion is there by the sidewalk,
smiling its wondrous smile,
singing the song of eternity.
Listen! You have ears that can hear it.
Bow your head.
Listen to it.
Leave behind the world of sorrow
and preoccupation
and get free.
The latest good news
is that you can do it.

– Thich Nhat Hanh

The Journey of Grief

 

If you have followed this blog for awhile you know I have a deep passion for poetry. I remember the sadness I felt when I learned Mary Oliver had died. It was hard to imagine I would never read a new poem she had composed.

When I read her poems I can relate to her experiences, subjects, and beautiful images. Often her poems read more like a conversation. I picture myself sitting on a bench with her listening to her well-chosen words.

The poem above is one of my favorites of hers. Because of events and changes in our lives, we sometimes begin a new journey. Like the line in the poem says, 

"determined to do the only thing you could do- determined to save the only life you could save. "

I am going to work on saving my life. I am ready to embark on the journey of understanding my grief. My husband has now been gone for eight months and I miss him every day. Thanks to Hospice of North Idaho I have found someone to help me mend my life.

Where I'm From

 

In 1993 George Ella Lyon created a poem that captured memories of growing up, home, and family called "Where I'm From".  She said in an interview it is " to the voices in all of us that long to be heard." Her poem as been copy changed for many occasions and used as a way to remember home. 

At my husband Everett's Celebration of Life recently I wanted to write his "Where I'm From" poem to capture memories of his childhood, his early adult life, and his life as a father. My brother-in-law Paul read it for me at the service. Enjoy:

Where I’m From 

In Memory of my husband Everett

By Christy Woolum

I am from an old cabin

from warm stew by the wood stove.

I am from a sled that carried me down to town

In the cold, icy winter.

I am from the Chewuch River,

Hunting to provide for my mother,

And pack mules, rodeos, and songs around the campfire.

I am from apple warehouses and orchards,

From Red Delicious, McIntosh, and Winesap.

I’m from cutting down trees and running a bulldozer.

I’m from The Lord is My Shepherd, 

Singing gospel songs

And reciting Bible verses from my heart.

From Oroville to Round Lake,

Dried deer meat and Hamburger Helper.

From fingers stained with huckleberry juice

And a station wagon full of kids.

I am from “ Do I need to cut a switch?”

And “Shhh… I am watching the news.”

I am from riding horses, hunting with my family,

Cowboy boots and a tall, white cowboy hat.

I am from Scotland where I yearn to visit,

The World’s Fair, camping trips, and swimming in the lake.

The drawer in the blue dresser is

Piled with all the cards and notes from the family I love.

A collection of words I go back and read.

Underneath is a pile of black and white photos.

I remember my childrens’ faces when I pray,

Before I go to sleep at night.