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you have to start with the egg, the same egg, the very same egg fertilized at the same exact moment, fathered by the same exact man, impregnating the exact same woman, at the same, identical moment in time  

then, after that, anything goes

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Sixty-six years young and it’s only just now beginning to dawn on me that my family’s way of thinking – subtly and not so subtly drilled into me as the only way of seeing the world – well, it just ain’t so.

Such liberation! My poetry, literature and photography peeps, those good friends & new acquaintances I encounter in other circles, all tend to speak in gentler tones, they convey a positivity and sense of gratitude for the good things – and people – in their lives. There’s an openness in their demeanors and an appreciation for beauty, for poetry, for literature, for nature, for love and for music!

No one is perfect. No one person embodies all that is necessary to fulfill the role of ‘model citizen’. But expanding my world beyond the petty jealousies and harsh rhetoric, the gossiping and backstabbing, the disdain and envy that surrounded me for so long – too long! – has helped to bring things into better focus.

I want to close each day knowing I tried my best to be a better person. For me, it’s the only way forward. And in that – such freedom!

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Earlier this month, I participated in the River Heron Review poetry retreat at The Barn at Boyds Mills in eastern Pennsylvania. It was, in a word, amazing.

The grounds were spectacular, and I met some beautiful, wonderful and incredibly kind and talented writers and poets. In addition to those of us who were part of the River Heron Review poetry retreat, I met other writers who were staying there on individual, personal retreats, some of them having come to Boyds Mills five, six, seven times before. Such is the draw of this fabulous place!

This was the first time I’d allowed myself the luxury of flying halfway across the country simply to explore and invest in solitude, camaraderie, and the pursuit of craft. I’d read about retreats such as this before and now I understand why they are so popular and, dare I say, necessary for the development, expansion, and exploration of one’s literary pursuits.

Although I did not “poetize”, as my husband calls it, as much as I’d hoped I would – I did write but, on those days, when the weather was glorious, my other love, photography, drew me outdoors, imprinting ideas of passion and nature, quiet, peace and serenity deep inside my brain and within my soul – I was truly inspired during my stay.

Robbin and Dawn, our intrepid hosts and poetry gurus, provided us with a variety of tools, readings, activities – and encouragement! – which will continue to serve this writer well. A terrific balance of “structured” events and personal “down time” was both welcome and effective. I am grateful.

Next year’s retreat is scheduled, again, for mid-October 2024. I’m hoping to return for another relaxing, exhilarating poetry getaway with these same new friends – and others I’m sure to meet along the way – kindred spirits, all, who enjoy reading and writing, people who ‘get’ me and share in my love of poetry. Until this retreat, I hadn’t realized how much this poetic body of mine craved, how much it needed, to be enveloped in the embrace of others who understand and respect the balm writing affords those of us driven to express ourselves in not just language but via the power of images as well. I cannot explain it any other way.

I’m so grateful to have had this opportunity. One of the things I loved about The Barn at Boyds Mills was the availability of so many little nooks and crannies, places to write in quiet and solitude as well as the soul-nourishing sights and sounds of Mother Nature, all around us.

This poetry retreat was such a fantastic experience. Once more, with gusto!, I am so very, very grateful!

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We’re sitting in the living room after supper.

I’m reading – Are You There, God? It’s Me, Margaret – can’t believe I’ve never read this before! Bill’s on his cell phone, checking the stats for The Open (they don’t like you calling it the British Open!), when suddenly my husband breaks the comfortable silence.

“Let’s go ride our bikes.”

After an eager and enthusiastic start a few years ago – all tricked out with the latest gadgets and gear – bicycling was relegated to the west wall of the garage where Bill’s Trek and my Townie Electra have hung upright the past three years.

Bill checked the bikes over, making sure the tires were all properly inflated and then, per my hesitation, we simply rode around the cul-de-sac / loop where we live.

And it was GLORIOUS.

I was transported to sensations of freedom and youth and experience and wondered why in the heck I’d let this joyous act of riding my bike pass me by.

Well, no more. The batteries on our odometers need to be replaced and Bill will have to install the bike rack so we can transport our wonder machines to any number of delightful trailheads in the area and then – then! – the splendid exhilaration of new vistas, the heady rush of wind in our faces, tunneled bike trails, glimpses of nature and wildflowers, deer sightings, blue birds, etc., etc., etc.! Even those tired muscles, sure to resurface after such an extended absence, won’t be without some small measure of satisfaction.

More to come, my friends. More. To. Come. 🙂

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quarter-inch is all we got overnight. it must have been a heavy downpour, regardless, as roses lie prostrate below our bedroom window.

I adhered to paved surfaces on my walk this morning, avoiding drenched grass, small puddles, and congregations of mud and street debris.

in other news, four children were discovered alive after more than a month alone in the Amazon rainforest.

my husband and son and I camped during a thunderstorm once. cozy between the two of them, I stayed warm and dry while holes in the corners of the tent made for a miserable night for my two bestest guys.

after far too much of a good thing, I’ve witnessed street after street of wet carpet, furniture, and other ephemera of people’s lives unceremoniously chucked to the curb.

victims of Katrina and other mighty gales have their own stories to tell, gargantuan tragedies unimaginable to endure.

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It’s true, I’ve found, what they say about how engaging in new and (hopefully!) positive behavior for a period of roughly thirty days can provide another layer to the texture of what we cherish most about ourselves.

When I retired in 2017, the year I turned sixty, I received a small, red-leather journal. I decided I wanted some form of structure to my new freedom-filled days, an accounting of sorts so I used this journal to record those things I’d accomplished each day. Aside from a brief pause – I decided I’d done so long enough but then I hankered for my nightly tradition of enumerating what had transpired – task wise – throughout the past several daylight hours – I continue to write in my WIAT journal every day.

WIAT: What I Accomplished Today.

Of course, there are some things that are just daily givens such as making my bed, brushing my teeth, showering, etc. Those are not WIAT-worthy expenditures. But laundry, mowing the lawn, baking cookies, making progress and/or completing a quilting project, Gravel Travel / photography, writing a new poem, submitting my poetry to a new journal, going for a walk, riding my bike, performing Garbage Patrol or Poop Patrol (picking up after puppy!) – these are just some of the things I add to my journal.

Some days, very few of them actually, are blank. Sometimes, a person’s day might appear to be a non-event, nothing noteworthy on the accomplishment scale. But that doesn’t mean it wasn’t a good or memorable or pleasant day. When I can spend a few hours in the shade of our twin canopies out front, beneath the branches of our oak and maple trees, reading a good book, with puppy at my feet, I’m not exactly operating in firecracker mode. And that’s okay. So what? I don’t have anything of merit or value to add to my WIAT pages.

Or perhaps I’m sick. Or it’s just too hot to do anything at all. Duly noted as self-required justification for my lack of checking boxes of any kind whatsoever. Still okay.

And so, here we are at the beginning of a new year. I just rejoined Goodreads so I can track the books I read, what I’m reading now, what I’d like to read going forward. (My first account was hacked so I jumped ship. I’ve decided to give it another try!) My 2023 Goal: Read 50 books this year.

Another habit I’ve decided to pursue is that of submitting to 100 poetry journals and publications by the first of April, which just happens to be National Poetry Month.

Last, but certainly not least, I’ve decided to commit to writing one haiku or senryu each day, some of which I may post here on A Sawyer’s Daughter. I was inspired to do so after reading this article. What I write each day might be ‘rough’. They might be spot on. They might even be cringeworthy. But I’m willing to plow through those first 30 days to create yet another self-embracing strategy for the betterment of Julie.

Happy New Year everyone!

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Stuck in the thick of it, those plunging temperatures, bitter winds, ice-slicked roads and sidewalks, it can feel like this will be our world from here on out, nothing for it but gray, gloomy skies and the isolation of the polar darkness we experienced just a short week or so ago.

And then, there’s a day like today! Bright-lit & mild, calm and peaceful, sunshine just oozing through the late December air. Our car’s temperature gauge delivered us the magnificent news: fifty-six glorious degrees! Not that we needed a digital device to tell us what a wonderful day it was for our walk, puppy straining at his leash, a broad canine smile and merry eyes that would melt any human’s heart.

Oh, there will be more nasty winter weather to come, no doubt. This is Iowa, after all. We’re hale, stout, hardy creatures, those of us who’ve lived here our whole lives. We’re used to it. We can handle the tough stuff, even with three to four months of winter spread out before us. No matter. It won’t last forever, despite the doubt that sometimes creeps in. Spring, that now-elusive delight, is something we ought not to tempt ourselves with just yet. It, after all, isn’t even the first of January yet! But, still, we can tuck it away, that certain knowledge that warm, sunny, balmy weather will inhabit our days before too (terribly) long.

Today, just for today, I can deal with that.

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My ‘day’ began at 12:34 AM (count me the odd one as I get a bit of a thrill out of glancing at the clock and seeing numerical sequences or patterns, such as this). After half an hour of wakefulness, I got out of bed, donned my robe and slippers, grabbed my journal, my current read (‘Melmoth’ by Sarah Perry) and an assortment of poetry journals. One of my morning rituals is reading a variety of poems – duly noting them in my journal – and since it was technically “morning”, I began to read and record the poems as I experienced each and every lovely one of them.

My winter solstice was off to an early start indeed, so perhaps my day – this designated shortest day of the year – will feel a little longer than it really is. As I noted in my journal (in the wee hours of the morning), the days begin to lengthen from here on out and that is truly something to celebrate! Especially here in the frigid Midwest with a winter storm bearing down on us right before the holidays.

Two hours later, I was ready to crawl back under the covers. I slept well after that. This is one of the perks of being retired. Can’t sleep at night? No matter. I don’t follow any schedule other than whatever my heart desires these days. I can sleep in, if I want to or need to, although this particular morning I was surprised to be awake, and up & at ’em, about eight o’clock, even after an interrupted night of rest.

So here’s to the Winter Solstice and the return of increasing light in the weeks and months ahead! Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays to one and all. 🙂