Writing Portfolio: The Western Daughter

I started this poem a few years ago but had never finished it.  I was taking a class during undergrad called "Literature of the American West."  I was inspired by some of the poetry and prose and tried my own.  During this semester, I opened up some of my old work and revised/finished some pieces.  This is one of them...

The Western Daughter

It's a well kept secret that everybody knows,

Felt in the wind, a legend it blows,

Of hardworking hands and soft loving hearts,

Of new beginnings and much needed starts.

... this is my dream...

Come across the hills, if you're lost, please rest here.

Don't catch all my wishes, if they are free, they will grow.

A fence, a garden, dogs in the yard,

beyond the property line, stretches miles of land.

Who's to tame it?  Who's to say?  This is the spirit land.

Trial by fire is how we learn. It's not the easy way

but it has been done.  It's in community.  It's in unity.

Every dream will pour from my chest.  I could search the whole world wide,

only to come back to my home in the West.

And so it is, a safe place to be.

Wild at heart, the mountains we see.

Felt in the wind, floats in the water.

Mother West, I am simply her daughter. 

Writing Portfolio: Soma

SOMA - 

S :: So sad you are getting older.  When you limp, it breaks my heart. But when I think of all the amazing times we have had, you have had a full life!  WE have had a full life together!

O :: Often, I remember when we would go to the dog park and you would never get tired! Remember when you could swim for hours!  Remember that time we took the rowboat out on the lake together?  Remember when we used to go on jogs and I would let you loose when we got to the woods!?

M :: Most importantly, you have taught so many valuable lessons.  You have taught me how to be patient. You have shown me what loyalty looks like.  You have taught Grizzly how to be a good dog.

A :: All along, you have never heard a sound. It's amazing you have gone your whole life without hearing your name.  It's amazing that you know sign language and that you know to not wander far. You are irreplaceable sweet girl.

*Soma is a 10 1/2 staffordshire terrier-pitbull mix.  My fiance has had her since she was 8 weeks old.  I have known her for 5 1/2 years. Soma was born deaf and responds to sign language commands.  She is something special.

Writing Portfolio: I am from

I am from... daisy chains and four leaf clovers,
     shady summers, staying out until the sound of the streetlights hum.
I am from... ferry boat rides every Sunday to visit my Papa,
     collecting pockets full of beach glass and shells.
I am from... childhood friends Madeline, Charlotte, and Laura,
     turning pages until my eyelids melted into slumber.
I am from... costumes changes and ballet slippers,
     toes bleeding while my heart caught fire.
I am from... husking corn and strawberry picking,
     showing little brother and sister how the big kids do it.
I am from... Sunday movie night and breakfast-for-dinner,
     piling blankets, pillows, and couch cushions into a comfortable heap.
I am from... cross country road trips and flights to NYC,
     ever excited for hugs from Grans and playtime with cousins.
I am from... daydreams and "look out the window,"
     endless thoughts, mind scribbling down new adventures.

Writing Portfolio: Writer's Block

WRITER'S BLOCK

It's one of those nights that writing is just not coming to me. Every so often I glance out the window in desperation.  It was sunny a little while ago.  It's 9:26 p.m. now.  I've been at this a long while.  Here I sit, on and off, waiting for the magic lightening bolt of creativity to conjure up an entertaining tale. I'd even be fine with a heartwarming memory or a short witty poem.  But nothing.  It's as if I never lived a day in my life or have lost my memory. I sit. I lay on the floor.  I do a few stretches... 7 modified pushups... watch the new Beyonce music video... eat a Greek yogurt... start a load of laundry...

The cursor keeps blinking at me.  

Blink.  Blink.  Blink.  

Each time a jeering reminder that I haven't yet written a word.  

Blink. Blink.

"WHAT DO YOU WANT!?" I yell at the screen. "I've got NOTHING for you today."

I wonder if professional authors ever get this way.  Imagine "writer" being your full-time job.  On a day when you can't "do your job," you do everything BUT your job.  Bathe dog.. walk around the yard a few times in your socks... research how to brew kombucha... color code the books on the bookshelf into a rainbow pattern... nap. Being a teacher, I don't get to do that.  I can't go to my job, and then decide I'm not able to perform that day.  What an odd concept.  What other jobs do you get away with that?  Painter, maybe? What else?  Designer?  Blink. Blink. I wonder what is the longest amount of time a writer had WRITER'S BLOCK without giving up on their career? 

Teacher's block.  Surgeon's block.  Firefighter's block.  Doesn't seem to fit.  

I imagine a building in mid burn-down, (everyone's safe, don't worry) and a firefighter standing there with a dripping hose. Frozen. Blink, blinking like a deer in the headlights.  

"Sorry guys, I can't today. I have firefighter's block." Drip. Drip. Drip.

"That's alright, Jim! Go home, eat a Greek yogurt, watch the new Beyonce music video.  You'll be back at it tomorrow!"

Writing Portfolio: "I Believe"

“I believe…”

Education is… a process with no end.  Education is life - important and necessary to those who embrace its’ possibilities.  

Schools are… helpful and a hinderance.  Schools, led and run by the right people - people with true and positive intentions - are impacting.  Schools, led and run by the wrong people - greed, ignorance, or what have you - can hurt.  Schools are not the only place that education exist, but the potential and possibilities can be endless!

Teaching is… age old.  Teaching is new.  Teaching is difficult.  Teaching is magical.  Teaching is frustrating.  Teaching is passion.  Teaching is work.  Teaching is play.  Teaching is tiring.  Teaching is awakening.  

Students… need a safe and nurturing environment to experiment with what life is about and what it can offer.  Students need patience and time to grow.  Students need to develop skills and traits that make each successful to his or her own potential - Students need teachers to model this.

Teachers… need to possess unique qualities.  A teacher’s work directly impacts the lives and futures of so many.  Teachers need to possess all the qualities they expect or desire their students to attain - patience, responsibility, reflection, respect, determination.

Writing Portfolio: Published Book Link "Taking"

http://storybird.com/books/taking/?token=c8dvsarxm8


I used a website called "Storybird" to create my published children's book, "Taking."  This website is free and includes thousands of illustrations to use to create a story.  I enjoyed using this technology to create a fun and meaningful story that I will be able to share with my students.  Enjoy!

Writing Portfolio: Meditation

Meditation

I look to the North

   for direction and understanding.  In hopes to

       never be lost, but only wandering.  

In the north, I seek positivity and uplifting - to honor those who come into

   my life with a warm and welcome spirit.

I look to the East

    for inward reflection.  In hopes to

         create careful thoughts, and words, and actions.

In the east, I seek mindfulness and compassion - to approach each situation with thoughtful

    intention.

I look to the South

    for grounding and stability.  In hopes to 

          stay true to what I believe and to pick myself up when I fail.

In the south, I seek relationships - to surround myself with others

    who help me water my roots.

I look to the West 

     for wonder and promise.  In hopes to

         always be enchanted with the world around me.

In the west, I seek outlook - to always examine my experiences 

     with an open heart, discovering eyes, and childlike-soul.

Writing Portfolio: Excerpt from childhood collection of Little White Lies

Excerpt from my childhood collection of Little White Lies:

I saw him peering over the back of the seat in front of me.  He looked nervous, almost afraid.  "What's wrong with Drew?" I thought, "He looks like he is going to be sick."  

It was Valentine's Day.  I had spent the night before writing the names of each kid in my class on the kitten-themed cards, carefully selecting who got which card, so that no wrong ideas were formed.  I definitely wanted Miles to get the one with a cheeky message, and Grant had to receive the one about being only 'pals.'  I saved all the cutest kitten card for my best friends.  They were all packed back in the box and ready for the next day!

"Seriously, Drew looks like he is going to..." He tossed a red box of chocolates over the back of the seat and said, "These are for you.  Happy Valentine's Day!"

I stared at him in disgust.  Drew was a grade younger than me.  We were elementary school friends but I had no idea he wanted me to be his Valentine!  I was mortified.  If friends asked me where I got the chocolates, I did not want to admit that they were from Drew.  And if my mom asked me, I would rather curl up and die!  I had to act fast.  I couldn't say "no thanks" or "I don't want these" because I was always taught to be thankful for a gift.  This was a major dilemma.  

"You know who always talks about chocolate?" I thought, "My teacher."  She would love these chocolates and she would never know who they were actually from!  Drew hadn't signed his name anywhere on the box so the coast was clear!  

I carried out the plan.  "Oh Megan, I love chocolate!"  ("I  know.") "What a thoughtful Valentine gift!"

Days later, I received a thank-you note in my school mailbox and opened it on the car ride home.  I had completely forgotten about my devious plan.  "What does it say?" My mom inquired.  "Did Miss. Davey like her card?"  

I read:

Dear Megan,

Thank you so much for the Valentine's Day Card and gift certificate!  I am a lucky teacher!  Also, thank you for the box of choc -- I stopped dead in my tracks.  I didn't want my mom to know about Drew and Miss Davey and the re-gift!!

"Box of chocolates?" Mom was confused.  "We didn't buy Miss. Davey any chocolates..."

Writing Portfolio: Recess friend. Recess enemy.

Recess.

Recess and I were the best of friends and the worst of enemies.

Exploring, flipping, sprinting.

It's where I learned my neatest tricks.
       Tying my sweatshirt around my waist and looping the arms underneath the high-bars so that I could spin around and around like a water-wheel.
        I learned cats-cradle.
        I learned how to be a champion at POGS with my super metal 'Slammer.'

Sometimes recess was what I avoided the most.
         I faked stomach aches in second grade so often that the nurse started to call home in worry.
         Often I simply didn't like the cold.
         At times I had no one to play with.

I loved recess but I barely liked it too.

Much of the equipment from the early 90's is buried deep in landfills, I'd assume.  Deemed unsafe.          ... Probably was...
I can remember my favorite one: the geometric dome, commonly known by kids as the 'spider-web' or the 'bubble."  Such gentle, soft-sounding names for what it really was.  A structure of cold, welded bars that towered above me and could cause injuring beyond "nurses-room" repair.
But to climb, hang in, swing upside-down, or simply sit on the top where you could see the whole of the playfield, thats where you would have found me.

I barely liked recess today.

My friend Lyza and I played on the spiderweb.  And we would jump off and land in the pea-gravel, laughing, and wheezing, and eager to climb and jump again.  It didn't even hurt that bad if you fell.

One cloudy day, we were jumping and climbing.  After one ordinary jump, Lyza let out an excrutiating "yelp" and grabbed for her eye.  Then the tears.  I sprinted over; it felt like running in waist-deep water.  That feeling of running in pea-gravel.  "What's wrong?"  She reluctantly released her hands from her red, splotchy, tear-streaked face.  A little pebble had found its way and stuck to the white of her eye.  "Get help!" she screamed.

I ran.
As fast as you could run in what felt like waist-deep water.
Kids zig-zagged in front of my path, unaware of the accident that had just occurred.

"Duty, duty!!"
       "Yes, Megan?" (unconcerned.)
               "Lyza has a pebble in her eye!"
                           "Excuse me?"
                                    "Lyza has a PEBBLE in her EYE!!!!"
                       (silence.  then.....)
                                       "Don't be a tattle-tale, Megan."
The duty turned around.  Blew the whistle.  And began to walk inside.

I felt like a was stuck in a vortex of unexpected guilt.  Kids were dashing around me.  I was frozen.  Tattle-tale?  TATTLE-TALE?  It wasn't a tattle-tale!  It was a rescue mission and I had failed my friend.

I could see her still hunched over by the spider-web.  I was almost embarrassed to go back over there.   I walked over, shoulders hung low.  I reached for her hand and threw her arm over my shoulder.  We sulked inside together.  The tattle-tale and the pebble-eye.



Epilogue:   Lyza was okay.  The nurse removed her pebble and I eventually graduated from Primary School and never had to see that duty again.  I also lost touch with Lyza for many years, but now we are friends on Facebook.  I don't know if she still remembers this incident.

Writing Portfolio: The River

The River

Late summer morning I bolt from the back door,
         barefoot, carrying a pillowcase for collecting treasures, for sitting on, for wearing.
Wild child, pretending to be orphaned, or a runaway captive, or a free bird.
Running downhill half a mile, rocky road, dusty feet, until I get to the field. No one sees me.

I am alone.

I slither under the barbed wire fence, and dive into the shoulder high grass.
Completely encased and completely still - becoming one with my surrounding.
The dust on my feet dissipates as muddy water encircles my ankles.
    Frogs, birds, small creatures, small me, in the waving grass together.

I creep and crouch and sprint and leap - still on the go. My destination: the River.
  Careful footed, I braid myself through the fields, every so often jolted from my dream-like determination by the sound of a roaring 4-wheeler, or a distant voice.

I duck.

Passing by the pond, abandoned by visitors for what could be decades, I wonder who else knows about this secret place.  Am I the only one alive in the world who knows about this pond-discovery?
 I imagine what girl or boy from a hundred years ago played here. Who does the half-sunken row boat belong to? I stand there for a long time, wondering.

I continue.

Hours later, I make it to the river bank. I sit. I ponder. I make patterns in the sand.
By now my pillowcase is full of long grass to weave together into a mat. I haven't figured out how to make a basket yet.  Hot sun. The breeze occasionally whisking against my freckled skin. I dip my toes in the cool river but never venture further than knee deep. I know what the river can do - I know the power it holds.  It's late afternoon now, it's time to head back.

I'll come back tomorrow.