That's why today's post is special for me. It has only come about because of my husband who organized care for my children and my school which personally gave me a portion of the funds so I could come to the 8th Annual Boothbay Retreat in Maine, sponsored by Heinemann Publishing. I'm here to soak up knowledge and do some writing of my own!
Yesterday morning at the Thinking-as-a-Writer session run by Linda Rief, (Yes, that Linda Rief!) I completed three QuickWrites and was sent off to find what surprised me. A couple of mine were on topics I usually touch on, but one surprised me. When I had the time, I continued writing. I do love that about writing and I try to tell my students about the phenomena. My hand seems to know more about what is going on in my head than my head does! My daughter just turned twelve last week and although I am proud of her and happy for her, I'm sad that growing up has to happen so quickly!
Last night Naomi Shihab Nye, (Yes, that Naomi Shihab Nye! You can't believe how funny she is! You will believe how grounded, insightful and human she is.) said we should send our poetry out into the world, so I will, although it still needs much revising.
By Stefanie Cole
Do you remember when it poured
rain, causing shrieks, fears and questions about tornados?
We went out, on the front porch,
sheets of rain, a wall from the overfilled toughs
flooding the base of the uneven sidewalk stones.
A fast storm. In and out.
Do you remember taking off you shoes and dancing
deep in storm remnants
Soaking wet, eyes glowing, no fear?
That was being a mother
You won’t remember the late nights,
Rocking chair, lights off.
You in my arms,
Sweet smell, dark hair
Rocking by the glow of the street light
through the seasons
Light changing from soft green to
stark white, last leaf falling, then sparkles
reflecting off of icy branches.
That was being a mother.
You will remember:
Lunch in bags!
Where’s your shoes?
Screen time’s over!
Not, just a minute!
Use your utensils
That is being a mother too.
Day in and day out.
I know it’s coming,
At one point, you won’t
be able to look at me
without cringing. Everything
I do will be wrong,
How could you come from me?
How could I possibly know your life?
is also being a mother.
I know we’ll argue, with laughter
About the times when…
I know you’ll remember wrong,
saying it’s my memory that hasn’t got it right
But we’ll both be wrong,
And we’ll both be right.
As we interpret out lives
In the mirror of each other