Please, don't post photos of rowan berries

"Please don't post any photos of rowan berries on your instagram account," my sister tells me before I leave the countryside, "Not yet. It's way too early for that." 

"I won't," I promise. The latest pictures on the camera roll are of dahlias in mom's garden. And of the sea. I always have pictures of the sea on my camera roll when I am at the countryside. 

It feels unnaturally early for the rowan berries to be orange. They remind of fall and school. My nephew will start second grade this fall. My sis has some freedom to work from the summer home or commute to the office, but once the school starts...My sister does not want to think of school at all, of the return to a small flat, to the city. 

I get her. It's hard to let go of the freedom and slow of the countryside, the spacious garden and vegetable patch, the daily swimming and the fresh tomatoes, the quiet and the dahlias. 

I had thought of the arrival of the fall one day when I looked out of my living room window and the rowan berries in the greyness of the day triggered some melancholy. It inspired a poemish piece. 

August paints the rowan berries,

making the proud orange stand out, 

almost screaming, “The fall is here, 

pack your flip-flops, find your jackets,

go back to school, work hard.

For each berry on my branch 

adds an item to your to-do list.”

Please, sunshine, don’t let us be ruled,

don’t surrender to this nonsense. 

Let’s still sing summer!

Swimming, swirling, free and joyous, 

walking barefoot on the grass, 

swinging in a floral-patterned dress,

the inner child laughing. 

“You fool! You silly butterfly!” the crows croak,

“Stop pretending, grow up, 

accept, let go. You must. 

Tick-tock, the time passes, the days darken.

There is no escape. 

The winds will blow away 

your umbrella in the rainstorm.”

“Don’t cry,” the heart hugs me,

“We’ll carry the summer light with us,

drinking rhubarb lemonade in November.”

I won't post a picture of rowan berries. May the dahlia celebrate the continuing of August. 

Haiku-ish

"Oops, it's Tuesday, and I haven't written my Slice of Life, " I remembered while brushing my teeth before going to bed. Reading reports all day long at home made me lose the sense of time and day.

To write or not to write? To write. Maybe not the post I had intended.

I wonder how people interpret and react to the two  haiku-ish texts and a photo without context, without including space, people, details, tasks, process and emotions surrounding them. 

1.

Under an oak tree

an acorn, not minding others,

dreams of becoming a giraffe.

2.

Like morning dew pearls

we are gently stringed together

 in strawberry silence

 

a found poem from comments

Comments, the kind and considerate words offered, fuel my writing. Not only do they help me to become a better writer and encourage me to keep writing, they also have a meaningful role in giving me new perspectives and adding to my identity. Sometimes the reader sees something in me and my writing that I might miss myself. This year especially the comments helped me to cross the mid-century line in my life.

I thank you with my whole heart. I hope you know that your words matter.  

During the past three year SOLSCs I have used phrases from the comments to create a found poem and return it as a gift to everyone. 

2021 found poem

2020 found poem

2019 found poem

This year's found poem from comments:

Like winged creatures, 

ideas flit back and forth,

writing about the ordinary 

sounds extraordinary.

 

Capture the swirling thoughts and emotions,

stop and consider those feelings, 

whatever they may be,

trip down the memory lane,

a reminder of 

our short existence on this earth.

 

Grateful that we are here,

still a lot of living to do, 

we will feel more fully ourselves than ever

surrounded by possibilities, 

carry ourselves through dreams,

get to experience joy.

 

Words motivate to continue

even better than we did before.

poetry in Estonian and English

Two months ago I watched as my daughter performed poetry with other young people at a theatre group presentation. They had learned about poetry, voice and movement, and practiced for weeks with guidance from a well-known Estonian actor.  I would make poor literary critic because to my eyes the performance was magnificent. Besides admiring the young people, their energy and expression, I admitted honestly that even after many decades of existence I do not fully understand poetry nor would I ever be able to perform it with the kind of expectations the acting teacher had set for the young people.

A month ago I visited a theatre performance where a group of actors had weaved poetry reading into the play as naturally as they sat and walked and delivered dialogues. I had moments of recognition with some poems, and it tickled my pride. I was tempted to raise my hand and announce, "William Carlos Williams wrote this apology poem." I sat politely quietly. Most of the time though listening to the actors confirmed my previous assessment of my deficient poetic understanding and expression ability. 

Writing poetry is mysterious for me too. It seems to be in spheres beyond me. Only during the past few years I have allowed myself try writing pieces of texts that I call poemish. Some of these texts I have actually felt pretty good about. It boggles my mind that I wish to share my poemish writing two days in a row this week.  

During my writing course my teacher gives us poems to read and then we create our own version of the poem. Last time she gave us a poem by an Estonian poet Aleksander Suuman. I couldn't make much sense of the poem at all. The word choice and images were puzzling. I could feel my stomach wrench knowing that the writing invitation would soon follow. I decided to breathe in and out and let the words come. 

I wrote in Estonian and I'll share this version with you and then the rough English translation. As always, some of the sounds and word play get lost in direct translation. To compensate it I changed some words in the English version. 

Ehitan ennast

tammetõrudest ja sinililledest,

rannakividest 

ja männiokastest.

 

Ehin ennast

merekohina ja seebimullidega,

piparmündilõhnaga

ja maasikamaitsega.

 

Eha ajal 

tantsin päikesejänkude

ja pilvedraakonitega,

kiigun silmapiiril

ja uisutan unistustega.

 

Et liiga magusaks

ei läheks, viskan

kildudeks

lillelise kruusi.

 

I build myself from

acorns and anemones,

pebbles and pinecones.

 

I dress myself with 

sea breeze and soap bubbles,

peppermint scent 

and strawberry sweetness.

 

During the dawn

I dance with dust bunnies

and cloud dragons,

swing on the horizon

and ice-skate on dreams.

 

To avoid becoming too syrupy

I smash to smithereens 

a flowery mug.

When I am an old woman...

10 days until my 50th birthday. I have already written 10 posts about turning 50 and how I manage the challenge of getting older. One thing that helps is to dream and picture myself much older than fifty. Last year about the same time I wrote thoughts about being old inspired by a photo exhibition. In my writing course I wrote what kind of stories my descendants would tell after five generations. This allowed to play with ideas of what else might be possible in the years to come, what else I might learn and accomplish. Then my teacher posted a writing invitation on her FB page and this was especially playful. 

Here's the original poem: "Warning" by Jenny Joseph. 

Here's my version inspired by it:

When I am an old woman, I shall eat a cake for breakfast 

Whether I wake at four in the morning or at noon,

And feed the crumbs to the sparrows.

I shall paint my toenails glitter blue and fingernails pink,

And fetch a newspaper in a frilly nightgown

And wear a tiara when buying striped socks.

I shall volunteer to be an usherette in an opera theatre,

And buy a ticket on the first train leaving the station,

And send me postcards signed “Yours truly”. 

I shall sit on a park bench for hours on Wednesdays

And people watch with binoculars 

And wave to grumpy strangers.

I shall build a nest of books in my living room

And fly paper airplanes from the balcony

And win a cherry pit spitting contest.

I shall press my nose print on cafe windows

And leave poetry in the candy shops

And stick owl pictures on mailboxes.

 

But now I wake regularly at dawn to the sound of my alarm

And twist my hair into a bun, iron shirts and polish shoes

And go to work on time to complete my to-do lists.

I follow the expectations and rules and try to fit in

To avoid judgement and get along with people. 

 

But sometimes I practice what to do when I am free

From duties and plans and pressure of time.

I sleep long in the mornings 

And eat breakfast in PJs

And then stroll on the city streets, go to art galleries

And smile to the waitress who serves me puff pastry pies in a café. 

Saturday morning

The morning didn't go as I had planned. I thought I would have plenty of quiet time in the morning to write my post. On Saturday mornings I usually wake up before everyone else. I love the slow Saturday mornings in my living room. The others like sleeping in long. Not today. My hubby got up shortly after me, and then the teenager, who usually sleeps until noon, and then my oldest whose visiting for the weekend. There wasn't much quiet in the clatter of spoons in the tea cups, chatter of dream overviews and random conversation about freckles, tattoos, chubby cheeks, skinny legs and bee stings. The change in my Saturday morning routine is amusing rather than upsetting.  

When I finally opened the laptop, I received a message from the school's admission officer to check my email. We have two new families starting on Monday. One family comes from Kyiv. It's the tenth day of war in Ukraine. I admit that I struggle with the mixture of feelings inside. Even when I turn off the news and try to focus on the sunshine streaming in through the window and feel its warmth on my cheek, the shadow of the horrors remains. I seek strength in small things that bring joy. Before opening my blog I opened my writing teacher's FB page to read a poem (in Estonian). She is posting one every day. Today she shared a translation of Astrīde Ivaska's gratitude poem.

Inspired by this I wrote my own version.

I’m thankful for the chocolate chip cookies 

and chopped cucumber, the leftover pizza 

and slices of life.

I’m thankful for the food that fills the stomach,

for the hunger that forces to feed the mind,

and the sweets that sustain the soul.

 

I’m thankful for the tulips on the windowsill 

and snowdrops peeking from the soil

under the living room window.

I’m thankful for the gravel on the icy road

and the massive boulder to climb on 

in the middle of a clearing in the forest.

 

I’m thankful for the predictability of seasons

and impermanence of everything.

 

I’m thankful for the March madness 

and a monthly writing challenge,

the safety of journal pages 

and the possibility in the unfinished thoughts.

I am thankful for a heart

capable of weeping

and laughing.

 

I am thankful for the people to count on 

and the countless moments to savour. 

                                               #standwithUkraine #stopthewar

inner storms

On too-much-of-everything days, 

my brain brews a storm,

a torrent of thoughts,

a flood of feeling,

a whirlwind of worries.

Guilt gushes over me.

I'm soaked in self-pity.

I root my feet,

anchor my breath,

hold on to gratitude,

caress myself with compassion. 

In the midst of all the storms

the light of love

will lead the way

home. 

borrowed words

We will have a poetry breakfast tomorrow morning - a virtual celebration for a month long poetry writing. The kids have chosen which poems to share. Some volunteered to play music. One said that she would bake a cake with mom. So sad that we won't be able to taste it. 
Putting together the final program, I thought of my homebound poets - the eagerness they showed for poetry workshops, the excitement in explaining their thinking process, the fun they had coming up with ideas for poems, the playfulness of writing, and I decided to dedicate a little poem for them. I got inspiration from Naomi Shihab Nye's "The Young Poets of Winnipeg." I borrowed words from the poems and reflections my students had written. 

The Young Poets of ISE

are magicians collecting moonlight and sunshine 

in their heart, morphing into trees 

with million arms, holding secrets deep inside,

reading the mind of penguins, dancing and cooking

with dogs, speaking the language of crows and sparrows, 

understanding a turtle song. They roam free 

on the fields of creativity, fly on the wings of imagination,

capture memories in a rainbow beaded ring,

leave thought prints in seashell-full sand,

stack words upon words upon words, creating new worlds 

for feelings, spreading homemade happiness.

The young poets of ISE

Are magicians. 

Found poems

When I started this challenge I gave myself a little extra challenge to try to write a poemish slice once a week. I knew that one poem would be a book spine poem and one would be a found poem. It may seem like cheating to use words that someone else has written but I think when we use these phrases and sentences and rearrange them in a different order, it is still writing, our thoughts and emotions that emerge. This Sunday morning I returned to the comments I have received this month. Reading them was like eating a handful of strawberries. The sweetness of the kind and generous words filled me with gratitude. I picked lines, ordered them, then changed the order, deleted some lines, changed the order a few more times.  I kept the original lines. The only changes I made were taking out few words and changing "your" to "our" in the last line.


A found poem from comments:

what a pleasure to know that we'll be writing together all month long

noticing, paying attention, looking a little more closely at the world around us

writing leans in to whisper in our ears, stirring the mind, the heart

this challenge documents the milestones and moments of our lives 

the daily moments inspire the thinking to come together

we write ourself into a life of connection, into a space where words matter

knowing we are in this together has given us the strength we need

it is always, humbling and heart-warming to realize the world is really a small place 

in which we share so much in common with others

we celebrate each other's joy and feel for each other's losses

our days seem slower now but our writing grows

cheers to our journey

A found poem for my SOLSC 2020 titles:

Sunday morning sunshine
the thoughts without directions
then and now and in between
pretending life is normal
right now
I write
it is what it is

Happy Sunday!

A book spine poem feat. journal

I was startled to find out that we have only ten days left of this challenge. For the past nine years I have always included a book spine poem as one slice. This time I looked a the PD book pile I had brought home as I prepared for a conference presentation (cancelled), and the pile of picture books for family stories unit (knowing we might be at home next month too), mentor texts for writing workshop, poetry books for April, the read aloud book we are still reading (all for the school closure time), and thought I might be able to make one poem for each pile from the books I had brought from school. I played and played but it didn't seem right. I looked at the titles and listened to what they said, picked just some, and realised there were lines missing. These words came from a journal I have and a beautiful collection of letters to young readers. This is my poem for today's Sunday morning:

word after word after word

day by day

things to write about

of primary importance

all the places to love

each kindness

once upon a memory

velocity of being

Mid March Sunday morning

On a snail-slow Sunday
made of teacups and poetry books,
dreams of sea-touching toes
and strawberry songs,
white winter quiet
dances with a bright-smiling sun.

On a mid March morning,
holding heart hugs and soul snuggles,
memories of sticky ice-cream fingers
and sunset whispers,
hopeful word-wiggles
tickle my pen-holding fingers.

Sunday morning

Fog has hidden the world,
muffled the voices of perky birds.
The morning starts slow,
not sad,
rather quiet and peaceful.

The day waits impatiently
with a to do list, tasks, duties,
ready to speed up the thoughts.
Hush. Stop the rush. No hurry.
Not now.

Time is too scarce and life too short
to spend it on scurrying busily
on Sunday morning.
I make myself a cup of tea,
soften my body to the sofa.

Keep sleeping in deep calm,
my family, my darlings.
Sitting still, fresh breath fills my body,
washing the mind of useless debris.
I listen to love holding my heart.

Inspired by Sarah Kay - Questions and Answers (in no particular order)

We had three-way conferences today. The students shared their reflections and goals and made plans. I read some Sarah Kay poetry in between some conferences. I got an idea for today's slice from there. Some of what was shared at the conferences today, and some additional questions asked, are in the following poem. This blog is my writing playground. So here is my little experiment for today. It's certainly a format to try again with more time to think and write. 

What are your strengths? 

I am a monster

What are you looking for? 

Making books with my brother

Why do you write? 

It’s only one piece of everything

What about spelling? 

Horrible and wonderful days

How can you improve?

Remind me to write

What's your favourite writing? 

The keys I lost

What do you write about? 

Use sticky notes

How can your teacher help? 

Write imaginable stories

What will you do? 

Choose a new journal

What would you like to continue with? 

Share interesting words

What next? 

A letter to my left shoe  

Where did you find them?

My writing journal 

How can your parents help? 

Experiment and play

What is your goal? 

It makes me feel good

I am, I wish to be

Recently I had a moment when I felt my identity threatened. The tough and unexpected incident created turmoil inside me. My OLW "Dare" came to rescue. I didn't run and hide, though I wanted to. I faced my fears and had a challenging conversation, and for now, at least, I think, the other person listened and understood me.
My students are going through the different things they created during the first weeks of school. I have been writing alongside with them. Several pieces of writing and art are connected to identity. As my students explain, identity is who you think you are, and even if others think differently, you know yourself best. Since GDPR has built high walls, thick doors and heavy locks to hassle with before sharing student work, I'll share my writing with you today.

These I am

Moment catcher
Calmness breather
Tea drinker
Sandbox baker
Step collector
Page turner
Slice writer
Question asker
Deep listener
Idea generator
Thought seeker
Growth nudger
Daring Dreamer


On the other side of the door*
I wish to be

I wish to be a magician,
imagining the impossible into reality,
feeding the flames of  learning, 
brewing a potion of power,
using the spell of smiles,
to sharpen the minds, 
to cascade creativity,
to expand hearts,
fulfilling hopes,
sparking joy,
building a better world
together.

*inspired by a title of a poem

A warm up exercise

Not much happened between school and my writing class. I managed to escape the rain. A button came loose from my coat. The lamb meatballs and black lentil salad tasted delicious.
I felt kid like excitement to be in the writing class.
For the warm up the teacher gave us a list of seventy five nouns e.g. tears, helplessness, smile, devotion, joy, loss, greed, listener etc. We had to choose five. Then we had to think of adjectives that would be opposite to the usual ones you would use with the nouns.

My pairs:

cold smile
restless joy
meaningless knowledge
light sadness
boring award

The next step was to choose one pair and see where the writing would take us. I enjoyed this exercise and thought it might be something to share with you.

1.
Disclaimer: the "he" in the writing is nobody specific, I made the person up

meaningless knowledge

he knows 
the exact distance between Moscow and Beijing
the circumference of Mars
Ohm's law
he can name 
the number of steps in the old town hall tower
the price of gasoline
all the capitals in Europe
he remembers
the date Gagarin was born
the names of hobbits
sixteen literary quotes

he doesn't know how to make soup
he can't find his tie nor socks
he forgot to bring flowers to his mom
and
he doesn't dare to say "I love you."


2.

Cold smile

six years of brecets
soda wash and whitening
Colgate and floss
behind the shiny fangs
a sharp tongue 
is ready to sting

borrowed words from comments

I borrowed phrases from the different comments from the March SOLSC slices that my dear readers have left for me. Reading them again was uplifting and heart-warming. The amount of care and thinking and support shows what a wonderful community we have here. Choosing, arranging, and rearranging the phrases took some time. This is how the words ended up today. On a different day they might have lined up differently. Thank you for your words, dear slicers!

-----------------------------------

I am still figuring out who I am.

I have everything I need,

and most of what I want,

worried about keeping all the balls in the air,

hopeful for what lies ahead.

I give myself a bit of grace.       

   

There are days when I

am not sure what to write,

have too much to say, 

have nothing to write about,

start without a clue,

feel daunted at times,

intrigued to write.

I'm wondering even now

what I will write this evening

I don't want my words to be wasteful or empty. 

We are not alone in this struggle.

                   

It takes courage

to sit down to write

capturing a moment in your life.

The words, but they do seem to come,

the right mix of detail. 

Each word we put down 

leads us to another, 

and another.

Life almost always offers up some inspiration,

experiences to be cherished,

sprouting more slices in the future. 

                

We are friends, connected through our writing.                  

Perhaps we could even meet. 

I wish I could just walk over 

and sit having tea with you. 

Tea with friends is always a great idea!

I'm glad you chose to write.

A story that's not shared doesn't exist. 

Here's to finishing strong!

A book spine poem

What would March be without book spine poetry?

 I have seen these poems popping up here and there already this March.

After school today I had a school board meeting at my daughter's school and then got home to pack for a short conference travel. I am super good at packing (even if I say so myself). This is one area where I go minimalist. I pack the smallest number of shirts and socks possible. Nevertheless, with the late board meeting and packing it is almost bedtime. Not enough time to craft a wordy post, enough time to play with the books, especially when the book titles have been trying to get my attention during previous days. I decided to write today because I don't know whether I would  have time to write anything tomorrow.

A Little Life

Useless magic

Silence

Then again

Dear Life

The things you can see

only when you slow down

Anything is possible

Daring Greatly

Release 

Big Magic

Poemish

Poetry is a foreign territory for me. I admire how the poets create worlds and catch thoughts with carefully selected words. I am exploring it. In the last year I have bought more poetry books than in the last twenty years.
I experiment with writing it. I love how Peter H. Reynolds encourages art with "Ish." I use his encouragement to try writing poetry.
Daring to share some poemish writing here.

........................

You think you are doing
it all right -
the right ingredients,
the right words,
the right colors.
All seems perfect at night.
Yeah, right!
Dream on.
Morning laughs at you.
Magic doesn't grow on trees.
Reality suffocates your dreams.
Proverbs might be right.
Silence is golden.

...............

Where are my
idea mines,
word gems,
thought treasures?

They see,
the others,
the wordsmiths and mind masters,
they see and understand,
know how to dig deeply
to discover diamonds,
to cut and polish
the jewels,
word after word,
creating beauty.

I read,
loose my hope,
drop my heart,
and stir oatmeal porridge.
I do the dishes,
sweep the floors,
fold the laundry.

Perhaps,
I don't need gems.
A tiny lumpy
sea salt smelling pebble
fits perfectly in my palm,
holding memories
of the free and joyful summers,
of the light and the laughter,
of family.

My words
hide with the wild strawberries
among the wild flowers,
nest with the pebbles
on the sea shore,
swim with peppermint leaves
in the morning tea.

I pick up my heart
and my pen
and write.

________________________

I thought that
nobody writes poetry
by opening a journal
and jotting
perfect words down.
I was wrong.
For some the words
slid out from fingertips
like ballerinas
pirouetting onto a stage.

---------------------------

you can count on nature

When completing tasks feels like fighting a hydra,
When it seems that the world is under the wrath of a rain god,
When no matter how much you give the not-enough laughs at you,
When cold has crept inside your molecules,
When thoughts and emotions are tangled,
You can count on the nature
To clear the endless brilliant blue sky,
To nudge the buds to reveal their green beauty,
The sun will arrive with the gift of warmth,
inviting you gently,
holding you fondly,
reminding you kindly,
world is an amazing place
you are alive and free,
you create your own abundance.

Found poetry

When the March slice of life story challenge finished, I knew I wouldn't continue blogging daily. Twice a week is enough for me. Several people have joined poetry challenges, writing daily poetry. This seems even more demanding than writing ordinary slices. It's not that I needed another challenge but #aprillove2018 instagram photo invitation was tempting. Click and done. A little bit of writing. Mini-slices. Yet, for today, having the photo would not be enough. Finding myself in my favourite writing spot I discovered that I had missed the words today - maybe they had not arrived today or maybe they had already left because they got tired of waiting. My blog is a writing playground. So I decided to play with the words that we were present  here already.

Using some titles of my SOLSC posts I created one found poem and the phrases from the comments I arranged into another found poem.

Poem(ish) one:

Not an ordinary day

When you find the right book

Reading in the car

Lucky charm

Writing in a café

Ten minute writing

Late night writing

One more cup of tea

Write what you think

Huge and small

Right now

Write it down

Celebrate

 Poem(ish) two:

A book at home on my bookshelf

Waiting to be cracked open

The words and inspiration put into the world

To be read and savored over and over

Amazing what we can see

Even when we don’t know what we are looking for

Always finding something interesting to notice

Unexpected beautiful discovery

Love those moments

Moments of savoring

So much to enjoy

A perfect way to spend a little extra time

And here's my photo for today:

• Simplicity. I saw a book. It said, “Read me.” A book + a cup of tea = happy. Tea: Sanxia Bi Lao Chun #aprillove2018 #capturinggratitude #taleswithfriends #tea #mindfulness

@terjeakke