Please Prove You Are Not a Computer

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Please prove you’re not a computer

ulopl gueseelo

I make mistakes on my own

ndleg spords

I change my mind

sitherel isersiber

I disagree

ednised ftstest

I am slow to process love

nciasp smencern

and grief

theauro dedise

I think therefore

tioneste rentmen

I am not a computer

Dreaming of My Father's Violin

Dreaming of the smell of my fathers violin

rosin and dust

sharp tang of a spare string

silent, I run my fingers 

across the blue velvet

On his desk

the waxy slice of agate that lay

long after his coffee mug was gone

strips of gold and umber

a tiny crystalled gap

between the layers

dawn creeps slow along 

strips of grey and cream

backing the fading twinkle of horizon lights

the house still asleep

on my computer

I play a boys choir 

singing christmas carols

even though it is March

while, out my dark window, 

a bus trundles lonely down the street

What are you reading? (one day late)

I’m reading a lot of inspiring encouraging blogs

in quick morning moments

I’m reading screenplay pages from my fellow students

on Fridays before class

I’m reading The Hobbit and bits of Beowulf

as I drift into sleep

I’m reading Luke, out loud 

with my daughters on the way to school (teen is driving)

I’m reading Seven Daughters of Eve

and

How the Irish Saved Civilization

and

Brian Green’s The Hidden Reality and Icarus at the Edge of Time

to keep up with my students

And cuddled on the couch before bedtime

with the wind outside whipping around the trees

I’m reading Wind in the Willows out loud

calling in the spring with my boys

Morning Mind

It is one of those mornings

my house is in order but 

my thoughts are not

I start three poems

I can’t get one thought to follow

behind another

My skin feels tight

I’m so grateful my clothes are all geranimals

so I can just where what’s on top of the pile

The radio takes forever to 

move off of politics 

and on to the weather

I pour milk over

mini-wheats and frozen blueberries

and fall on routine

waiting for my morning mind 

to settle in

Structured Potential

I’m trying to write a book. It’s on my bucket list - to really do it - properly.  I had lots of ideas and one grew and grew. It changed and branched. Characters grew into people who wandered through and worried at my dreams. Writing out some of the bits to get them from here to there was frustrating. The story dragged and languished. My friends were tired of me talking about it. I gave up in despair for a while, tired of wrestling with the behemoth. 

Then a friend encouraged me to take a screenwriting class. Now the story is alive again. It is amazing, like waving a magic wand.  Rewriting the story in a different form with strict limitations has swallowed up so many problems.  Like poetry, the form makes me choose.  The class is short so I just choose an option for now, perfection is some unspecified place down the road and I don’t need to worry about it today. I drown when there is just potential and nothing else.  Limitations are lifesavers.

True Love: Three Mundane Examples

1. I come home from work on Friday. Three of our four children are ill. House is  a disaster area. I begin to restore a bit of order. I set the table, light some candles and wonder what to make for dinner. Husband and healthy son come in the door with dinner in hand. Surprise!
2. Socks have been washed but not sorted for a week. That’s six people, so let’s see...12 socks a day, 8 or so days plus all the socks that could not find their mates from last week...mixed piles of socks blanket the living room floor. Four children watch a music video on the internet where socks are animated as fish. Suddenly the adult socks and the children’s socks begin swimming to different island pillows on the floor.  The teen socks swim up the stairs to the girls room.  The boys finish the game by loading their sock island into a blanket spaceship and blasting off to explore the closet planet in their room.
3. 3 a. m. Healthy son is barfing all over the rug as he runs to the bathroom down the hall. I clean him up and fix up a bed in our room. Poor kiddo. As I go down to the kitchen to make him some ice chips I hear my sweet husband cleaning the carpet with the wet-vac.

I am so blessed.

Who am I, how did I get here and what do I do?

I am a teacher at an independent school where the students pick a topic they are passionate about to study in depth.  I teach math and Latin but mostly I take students on field trips related to the topics they choose to study.

One of the most exciting times of the year is when we field trip teachers get the lists of the topics the students have chosen. It’s like Christmas! The lists have been coming in during the last few days. I’m working on many of the topics that relate to anthropology and one of the students I get to work with wants to know how we got here. He’s not asking about the origin of humans, but once there were humans how did they spread out over the planet.

I started my search for the perfect person to help him with his questions.  I started reading about anthropologists who use genetic markers - small mutations that occurred at various points in human history and were then passed on - to build up a map of early human migration.  

The weight of human history haunted the rest of my day - as I listened to news from Syria, as my husband told a family story at the dinner table, as I glanced at family photos from 1900 on the wall going up the stairs, as I read my children a bedtime story about Nebuchadnezzar’s dream. And I thought - when my ancestors were on the verge of extinction and each day was an infinitesimally epic quest to survive, all I do and know was far and away, in a future where each minute is filled with unimaginable, unbelievable wonders.