Mankato's Poetry Walk and Ride

If you happen to find yourself in Mankato any time over the next year, check out the poetry boards througout the city.  

"Father's Wood Stove" is a version of a poem I wrote in college.  I rekindled its embers about a year ago with a few revisions and am happy it's found a home in southern Minnesota, where I'm able to visit with my dad.  A cozy poem for winter reminiscing.

 

Can I Call Myself a Writer Yet?

My fingers want to fly across the keyboard, so energized they are as I prepare for tonight's book launch.  Book launch!  That's right.  My work is now published IN A BOOK.  I am so honored to able to hold my words, enterlaced with the stories of twenty other women, in my palms.  This feels so much bigger than the other small publishing experiences I've had over the past few years.  And still, I am grateful for each of those opportunities and would like to take a moment to highlight them here.

https://www.blurb.com/b/732250-una-vista-brillante-reflections-of-colombia

In 2009 I self-published a book through Blurb.com filled with original poetry and photography from when my husband and I traveled to Colombia to adopt our oldest daughter.  The courage to create  this book, came from my desire to donate something personal to the Friends of FANA, MN silent auction.  This is an annual event that supports FANA, which stands for Fundación para la Asisténcia de la Niñez Abandonada, and is located in Colombia.  Our daughter was cared for at FANA for the first 2 1/2 months of her life.

In October of 2010 I created this blog, because I'd heard aspiring writers do that sort of thing.  After chosing a title and domain for the blog, along with carefully wordsmithing my short bio, I froze.  Although I knew that only a couple of people would ever read whaterver I wrote here, the actual thought of sharing my words publically paralyzed me on the writing runway.  I stayed there for two months, until I ended up composing a short post about my insecurities as an aspiring writer, my inner critic's booming voice, and my writer's block.  I also threw in a little winter poem in an attempt to join the theme of my words with the title of my blog.  Click.  Post.  Done.

That same year, I took my first writing class at The Loft in Minneapolis, entitled Motherhood Words with Kate Hopper.  In between mothering and teaching part-time, I journaled, scribbled poems, and sowed seeds of thought to be explored some day.  It's where I wrote my first draft of the first essay I ever published.  Though I loved the class, I ended it frustrated that I couldn't quite get this essay good enough to submit anywhere.  The "so what?" of the piece flitted up, over, and around me, but remained out of grasp.  It just so happens that the essay needed to sit and age another nine years before it was ready to be sent out into the world.  And I'm so glad it landed right where it did, in Literary Mama's online journal.

• My Fledging Reader is a createive non-fiction essay that tells the story of a mother (me) watching her daughter take flight into the world of books, as she contemplates the environment she and her husband have created for their little girl.  She wonders if the foothold is strong enough to support her as she continues to grow and gain independence.  You can find the essay, published in 2019, here:  


https://literarymama.com/articles/departments/2019/05/my-fledgling-reader

Many rejections, and two unfulfilled publication promises, I received an acceptance letter from  Burningword Literary Journal.  Their online publication breathed oxygen into my words and ignited a momentum within me to keep writing.  You can read the flash non-fiction essay here:

https://burningword.com/2021/04/his-season/

And now, tonight, I'll raise a glass and toast to twenty-one women writers.  I'll read a short selection of my essay, "Just Swinging," published in Her Path Forward: 21 Stories of Transformation and Inspiration.  A Modernwell Anthology edited by Julie Burton and Chris Olsen.  I'm thrilled to share this story that has longed to be told for years.  When I think back on all of the writing, revising, submitting, revising, and resubmitting I did,  I'm now so glad this piece is no longer swinging in limbo, but rather has found a stationary place to sing.  

So, can I call myself a writer yet?  I think I just might start today.

Solstice Born

 Solstice Born

    Today I begin the last year of my thirties.  My son, Will, says you're not old until you're forty, so only Dad is old.  I couldn't agree more.  I have grown to love and appreciate being a solstice baby., though when I was younger, I thought being a new year's baby sounded way cooler.  My mom was induced ten days early because Dr. Lester didn't want to be called in to deliver me on Christmas.  A healthy eight pound baby, my mom cried when she had to take me, her first baby girl, back to the hospital for Christmas.  I had developed jaundice and need to wear some sweet shades and sit under some bright lights wearing nothing but my diaper.

    

    I suppose this was the start of my love affair with light.  As a child, I would hear people saying that December 21st, my birthday, was the shortest day of the year.  I felt so jaded!  Why was my birthday shorter than everyone else's?  Later, I felt silly when I learned that my birthday actually lasted for twenty-four hours, the same as everyone's.  There was just less daylight, my mom explained.

    So now, when people mention me being a winter solstice baby, I smile and tell them, "Well, I like to think of having my birthday on the shortest day of the year to mean I brought the light when I was born.  Each day after my birthday gets lighter and lighter.  The sunlight stays out a little longer."  And in a way, I did bring light.  Light to my parents, who had two boys and dreamed of a little girl.  Light to my Grandma Proehl, her first granddaughter after a stream of five grandsons.  Though she didn't live to see my first birthday and I don't remember her at all, I believe a part of her lives in me; that she passed it on when she spoiled me and held me any chance she could.

  

    But in all seriousness, I know that only my savior, Jesus Christ, truly brings light.   Each day, I find a few quite moments to spend with Him.  One of the daily devotion websites I turn to is Blessed is She.  In Susan Spencer's post today, she writes:

The winter of waiting is almost past, and He is almost here. Let us arise to meet Him as He comes this Christmas. Bring Him all of the weight of this past year—all of your joy, suffering, and work. Imagine yourself kneeling down beside His waiting manger and offer it all to Him along with your heart.

Arise, His beloved, His beautiful one, and come and see the coming Newborn King.

In the midst of this very dark year, I see so much joy and light and hope.  I pray you see it with me, and that we all might catch a glimpse of that "Christmas star" tonight.  And as I strive to "offer it all to Him," and come to know God more deeply, I feel myself twinkling a little brighter and growing a bit closer to becoming all He has intended me to be.  If you are reading this, it is because you, too, are a twinkling star in my life.  

    On this cold winter solstice 2020 my cup is warm and overflowing.  I'll leave us all with a little advice from the day's DailyOM article delivered to my inbox.

Do not be afraid to venture joyfully out into the cold and the snow as you may have when you were a child.  A tingling and reddened nose is a small price to pay for a clear mind and invigorated soul. If your body articulates a desire to rest, give yourself permission to spend your free time reading, writing in your journal, daydreaming, engaging in artistic pursuits, playing board games, working a puzzle or meditating.

May this winter solstice clear your mind, invigorate your soul, and give you rest.

 

Of Snow Dunes

Of Snow Dunes

This isn’t a day for traipsing long and slow
harsh winds send spirits fleeing
over desert dunes pure and white.

Temperatures drop by the hour
three, then two, now one,
and onward into negativity.

Surprised by a pull to press on,
I let my four-legged companion lead
across the road, around the fence

I look down to avoid the bite of wind
studying the geology of snow
measuring strata, mapping the movement
that folded this fine fabric

Steadying to stay on the smooth, I spy
scritch scratch tic tac prints,
evidence of birds out testing the newness
before the morning gale took hold

Having sought retreat, all other signs hidden
I gaze forward, we forge homeward
The pull receded , we glide above swift secrets

My Christmas Prayer

As I read my morning devotion today out of Daily Reflections for Advent and
Christmas: Waiting in Joyful Hope 2018-19, I understood the significance of
this first verse from the Book of John in a whole new way, “In the beginning
was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God.”  I’ve
often heard it said that actions speak louder than words. This is true, and
yet my devotion from today speaks of an even more powerful language,
that of words and actions together.  The Word John speaks of, manifest each
Christmas as we remember the birth of God’s son, is love. God sent His
beloved to Earth, to save us. So, as Christians, God calls us to put this single
syllable word into action.  On the page, love is made up of only four letters,
but once written on our hearts, it becomes uncontainable.

In my MOMS Bible Study, I recently read a story about a little boy who, when
asked if he wanted to let Jesus into his heart, replied, “Well, I’d like to, but I
got to figurin’...I’m so little and Jesus is so big--he’s just gonna stick out all over!”*
Yes, that is precisely why God sent His Son, to be in relationship with each of us,
in such a way that we cannot help but reflect His love. This little boy’s innocent
response revealed a wisdom so many of us believers take a lifetime to understand.
We cannot experience His love only to guard it under lock and key.  Once we truly
know His love, the only action that makes any sense in response to God’s
irrational love for us, is more love.

On Christmas we celebrate the birth of an innocent child, a pure and spotless
lamb, sent to save the world. Don’t get me wrong, I love the image of this
peaceful baby cradled in his mother’s arms, but it is the man Jesus became,
what he said and what he did, that captivates my heart.  The last words from
the prayer included in today’s Christmas devotion are, “Make us all your living
vocabulary of love.” That’s it. That’s all there is to it. Perhaps this resonates
so strongly with me because I am a language teacher and a lover of words.
Perhaps I love this sentence because I’m still only beginning to fully understand
what God's love for me means in how I live my life. Either way, this is my
Christmas prayer, that we might all be a “living vocabulary of love.”

As Snow Flurries

As snow flurries in November air
so too our worries swirl and whirl
hearts flutter with the rush, the absent hush
a season so short, so full and frantic

Most thin flakes evaporate mid-flight
Fickle and sporadic, approaching, dissipating
Won't last the day, not to mention the night
Impermanent, barely visible; then gone

A few float down, sprinkling a faintly frozen pond
Speckles less fleeting, yet temporary still
Wind biting, impeding clear sightings
of friend, of foe, of fear, or faith forward

Worries and hurries dance weightless
small pieces searching for solid ground
observe them breathing, receding
No present place to touch down

An Auntie All Over Again

October 1st, 1997.  I was 15 years old and I'd just become an aunt for the first time.  Zachary Justin Proehl breathed his first breath, born to my brother Adam and his wife, Lori Proehl.  What a heaven-sent gift! None of my other friends would become aunts for a very long time.  My nephew had made me special.

Spring of 1999

Zach: 2 1/2 years old 

Me: 17 years old

Through the years, Zachary grew and became more often known as Zach.  He became...

a dinosaur-loving goofball.

our oldest ring bearer at the age of 6.

a dog loving, Harry Potter fan.

an "always ready to laugh at my husband's big kid antics" kind of kid.

and a movie loving, German studying, history buff at Winona State.

He is extraordinary.

October 1st, 2018.  Zach turned 21 today as Conor Clement Sonnek entered this world, born to my brother-in-law, Tyler and his wife, Cheryl Sonnek.  He has made me an aunt all over again.  He has made his brother Mason a big brother, a title that will stick with him for the rest of his life.  

His arrival has made this world fresh and new again.  He is my 6th nephew and will be the 13th child to call me Aunt Julie.  He is sweet newborn scent.  He is hope.  He is a little drop of God.

Imagine an ocean
and that you took a few drops from the ocean.
The drops would not be the ocean--
they would be merely drops of it,
of the same essence and substance as the ocean but not the ocean itself.
In the same way we,
who burst forth from a passionate God, 
made in God's image and likeness,
are not God. 
But we are little drops of God.
God-drops.

(first 11 lines of a poem by Edwina Gateley)

Clouded Vision

"Wow, we must have a big smudge on our camera lens.  Do you see those blobs there on both your eyes? I doubt they're actually there," my optometrist stated while showing me my retina scans.  Are you alright if I dilate your eyes to look at your lenses?"

"Sure, as long as it won't affect my being able to drive."

"No, your eyes will be more sensitive to the light for a couple of hours, but that's all.  You will probably want to wear sunglasses."

Upon dilating my eyes, my optometrist mused, "Hmm, those blobs are actually there.  Those are cataracts.  You have one in each eye.  Have you ever been told that before?"

She looked back at my chart and saw that the cataracts had never before been noted, but I was not surprised to hear I had them.

"No, but my mom had cataract surgery when she was in her forties.  That's kind of young for that, right?  I mean, my grandpa only just last year had surgery for cataracts and he'll be 90 later this fall."

She couldn't say for sure, but she thought these were probably the faster growing type of cataracts, especially due to their current size and the fact that they weren't evident three years ago in 2015 when my eyes were last dilated.

"Cataracts are something that will eventually happen to everyone, if you live long enough.  And when they begin to affect your vision so that they become bothersome, you have surgery."

Her demeanor was non-pulsed.  Perhaps she even shrugged her shoulder on that last sentence, as if to say, this is no big deal.

"They're not currently affecting your vision.  If anything, some forms of light and the glare from that light might affect you more."

I do hate driving at night.  And the sun, which I love and I seek each morning with my first breath, is hazily blinding.  Maybe it's due to these clouds on my lenses.  It seems my vision really isn't as clear as it appears to be.

My reading glasses prescription had only changed a slight click.  Ever drawn to classic styles, my five year old frames still suited me just fine.  Since I was just getting new lenses, I decided I'd splurge on some decent sunglasses.  Now that I knew about the glare, about the clouds, I'd stop buying my shades at the dollar store.  "I'll purchase just one expensive pair and hold on to them," I thought.


The late Dr. Maya Angelou references a nineteenth century African American song that speaks about God putting a rainbow in the clouds when it looked like the sun wasn't gonna shine anymore.  She goes on to share how she has had so many rainbows in her clouds, and she carries them with her wherever she goes.  She is never really alone because she has had these rainbows in her clouds, these kind souls in her life.

I am coming to see that the sunshine is always there.  At times it's just out of reach, just beyond my vantage point; but it is ever present within me.  Like the vibrant warmth of Autumn's reds, oranges, yellows, and golds there is a season to wear our joy boldly, to let it radiate outward, to let it shine. There may be clouds on my lenses, my vision is clear.

Through the Haze

Just over the Horizon

The Cross of Light

Prairie Sunrise

All photos taken at Franciscan Retreats and 

Spirituality Center in Prior Lake, MN 

Sensing Gratitude

For these eyes that see the morning's rays
Clear radiant light

For this hair and skin that feel the gentle wind's touch
Soft sweeping embrace

For these feet that tread this well-known trail
Slow strong steady strides

For these ears that hear my four-pawed companion
Pad rustle jingle

For this nose that smells the dew
damp green and yellow

For this tongue that tastes the water
cool translucent fresh

For this life, this season, and these gifts.

To See His Face

Just off the shore of Little Hanging Horn Lake, rests a row of kayaks.  I am here on a three-day retreat with a small group of strangers to rejuvenate and rediscover.  The lake is empty, yet filled to the brim with the previous day's rains.  I have two hours to myself following an invigorating morning of discussion and reflection.  The kayaks look inviting.  After inquiring in the front office of the resort as to where the life jackets are, I inch my way down the slope behind the main lodge.  Selecting a life jacket that's suitable I zip it up and cinch it tight around my torso.  All of the kayaks are wet save one, so that's the one I take.  With my oar in hand, I drag the small vessel into the water that awaits.

Almost immediately I'm a bit disappointed that I hadn't followed my intuition and unzipped the bottom of my black dry vent pants before heading to the lake.  As I paddle side to side, dipping and swinging, droplets of water splash from my oars and begin to soak my pants.  Determined to enjoy my kayak in spite of the wetness, I shrug my shoulders ever so slightly, rest my oar across the kayak, and roll up my pant legs.  Picking up my oar once more and orienting the kayak northwest, toward the lily pads, I promise myself I'll bring a camera out next time.  Of course, there won't be a next time, at least not on this retreat.  But no matter, my clarity of mind on this particular afternoon holds the memory securely. 

Floating leaves and perfectly imperfect white water lilies and yellow water lilies are dispersed throughout the algae and lily pads.  After lingering a bit and implanting their image in my mind, I turn the kayak and begin paddling toward the land mass in the middle of this small lake.  It looks like an island, but something tells me it's not.  Again, my intuition is correct and will later be confirmed by a fellow retreat goer who tries the impossible later that weekend and finds herself unable to paddle all the way around this island-looking peninsula.

As I paddle on, the water remains a sheet of calm, though the wind has picked up a bit.  There is still not another soul on the water.  I decide to stop just shy of going all the way to the center of the lake.  I lift my oar and rest it across my lap.  I close my eyes with the giddiness of a child doing something for no other reason than that it feels good.  With eyes closed, my other senses come alive.  I listen and let the wind move my kayak.  Gently, I sense I'm starting to spin.  When it feels as if I've spun a full circle, I open my eyes.   The winds still swish lightly through my hair, no longer spinning my kayak like a compass seeking true north.  I expect to see the same center stretch of land when I open my eyes, but instead I am a quarter of a turn off.  Or am I dead on? 

The forest before me looks dark, ominous, and unpredictable.  Or maybe dark, wooded, and secluded are better descriptors.  Perhaps lush, green, and alive?  Curious,  I paddle forward.  Just moments before, when I had closed my eyes, I said to myself that I would go wherever this spirit wind led me.  Now, slowly nearing this shore of the unknown, I see her first with my eyes. Then I hear her startled movements backing up the hill, hooves rustling over twigs and grass.  I slow my strokes, just grazing the water now and she slows too.  So once more, I lift my paddles, steady my kayak and slow my breathing.  I want to linger a bit and watch this beautiful spotted fawn.  I want to commune with her.  The fawn calms with an awareness that I am not a threat.  She stays and continues eating, hidden in part by the trunk of a tree.  And I keep gliding, a peaceful observer, who has found what she was seeking.

For I had prayed to see God's face when I closed my eyes and let the wind take the helm.  I had no idea how or if He would actually reveal Himself, but I had asked anyway.   He heard and fixed my on this beautiful young fawn.  Both in her and in the forest before me I can see now that this place is full of life.  It is lush, green, young, and hungry.  I can see Him and I can see myself clearly.  That which was once startled is no longer unafraid.

Reflecting with Great Anticipation

Sweet, savory summer is coming to a close.  Tomorrow my children all embark on new adventures with the start of a new school year.  Though Will is sad to see summer end, he admits he's up for the challenge of first grade and learning more español. "Everything in Kinder was too easy," he tells me.  Claire can't wait to spend all day with her friends and is pumped that her 2nd grade teacher has the cutest baby on the planet.  As for Sophie, she is off on the biggest adventure of all, middle school.  Nerves are high around here, but so is excitement and preparations.

And this teacher mama?  I've decided that this academic year, I'll be right here. Right here every morning to see them off and right here every afternoon to welcome them home no matter the day they've had.  Some days they'll come bounding off the bus up the driveway with stories spilling out their ears.  Some days they'll come lumbering up the driveway with hunched shoulders and heavy feet.  I'll see that they're carrying the weight of the world in their backpacks.  More often then not, my oldest will storm through the back door right past me and up to her room, craving solitude and a safe place to let the tears rain.  And I'll be here, right here.  To delight in their joy or catch them as they crumble. 

I'm looking forward to the 2018-19 school year with much anticipation.  I anticipate being mindful and present in my own life and the lives of my husband and children.  I anticipate completing home projects that are long overdue.  I anticipate making music and writing many more reflections just like this one.

Still Rising

I heard another of my favorite musicians this morning while driving south on HWY 169 to take my daughter to her summer babysitting gig.  Having recently begun listening to an awesome audio book I wondered whether I should pop that in or continue listening to the radio.  Just as I was about to switch over to Trevor Noah's Born a Crime, Jason Gray's I Will Rise Again came on KTIS.  With my nearly eleven year old listening to her own beats in the back seat of our mini van, I belted Gray's healing words.  I can't even recount how many times over the past six months this song met me in my darkest places, when I needed it most.  It found me on the countless solitary walks I took on the trail beyond my front stoop.  It spoke to me as I ached to hear God's voice, to see His face, and understand how He might be working in my soul. 

I don't know what this day or the next might bring, but I am fully at peace now with an awakened soul.  While attending a retreat with Julie Loomis entitled Rejuvinate and Redesign, I was introduced to Mark Nepo's The Book of Awakening.  This day book is AMAZING!  August 20th's entry, Holding in the Belly reminded me of an answered prayer for which I'd forgotten to thank God.  Nepo calls the reader to "Still yourself and see if there is a strain between your doing and your being, a strain from tending something in your life while on the move.  If so, stop and face what is in your belly.  Make what you need to tend where you are going."  In not so many eloquent words, I prayed for the ability to do this.  I prayed for God to give me the courage to stay where I was, to stand still instead of running to the next "doing" that might lift me up, that might make me rise. 

As I wrapped up my thirteenth year teaching, colleagues told me I was courageous to be taking a personal leave for the upcoming school year.  At the time, I thanked them for their encouragement, but I didn't believe them.  I felt defeated and completely lost.  I could not see how I would rise again.  I feared my best days had already come and gone.  Now I can confidently proclaim that those were lies.  For now I am filled with such immense hope that I cannot help but begin to tell my story.

The Desert as a Gift

 

In March, my family and I spent a day trekking around Joshua Tree National Park.  I marveled at the stark beauty of the desert landscape and contemplated my own internal desert, the one of fear and uncertainty that I'd been struggling to navigate since February.  I had pretty rapidly been falling into a state of depression mixed with anxiety that I just couldn't shake.  The physical desert of California showed off a glimpse of the beauty that spending time in the desert could produce, the gifts the desert could offer.

It would be three and a half long months until I emerged from the rough and barren land my mind and soul had wandered into; but I found both small and grandiose signs that day that I would walk in verdant fields again. 

I was reminded of the gift of the desert this morning while mowing the healthy and hearty soil upon which I now tread.  Listening to JJ Heller, one of my favorite Christian artists, I was able to see how far I've come and how beautiful the journey has been.  The fear and uncertainty that tried to swallow me has been replaced with excitement at all the possibilities yet to come.

Click the link below if you'd like to hear the song.

    

God is Still Here by JJ Heller

Perspective

Two photographs taken earlier this evening, one within seconds of the other, while standing on the same spot. The difference is in point of view.  Pivoting, I face a different direction.  Glancing upward, my perspective changes as overhead light breaks through.

Seeking the Clearing

I am a winter light seeker
I look to where it hides
between the clouds and just above the boughs
I sense it in the air as I walk out on my front step
a brisk kiss that calls me to awake

And so, I start off
searching swirls of snow on an ice-capped pond
Gleaning barren branches for just a glimpse
of what I know is there

I ask the wind, "Tell me, what do you hear of the sun?"
Only her hollow hymn resounds
I remember
winters upon winters seeking that same sun
lying dormant on the open prairie of my youth

All is grey
lacking in sharpness and crisp certainty
and yet, there is a a clearing
my seeking soul is sure
and when the clouds part, there will be
wisdom to discern and clarity to see
It is there my will to trod uncertain trails will be restored

And so, I'll continue my wanderings and take small delight
in stumbling upon deer beds on the floodplain forest
imagining caribou of old grazing just beyond my sight
I'll squat low to the ground so as not to miss the tiny elf's home
I'll help my children make ornaments of milkweed-bearded Santas
Together we'll play I Spy for black-capped chickadees
and squirrels scurrying back to their store
We'll hush and listen for the beauty within
and beyond our walls
Carols and prayers this advent season
believing the brightest light is yet to come

On a Frigid Spring Walk in February

Two days ago I left the house in only my spring raincoat. Yesterday I walked around the pond in my winter parka and neck warmer pulled up to the tip of my nose.

With the dog in toe, I set out on a frigid spring walk in February. I found myself alternating between striding steadily atop patches of brownish green grass and creeping over sheets of white ice--the kind that melts and then refreezes when it's not quite time for the ultimate BIG thaw. Upon the grass, I wove to avoid dog and goose refuse. These remnants of the previous fall have now been exposed.

I teeter between longing for the pure snow of winter to remain, covering all that we'd rather not see, and reaching for the energy, warmth, and growth that spring brings.

What I most needed

What I most needed was what I least expected

An hour of shoveling in the dulled winter's sunlight

shimmer of snow beads steadily falling in the light

fresh air

deep breaths

busy muscles

clear mind

Just post something already and Snow

I created this blog nearly two months ago after sitting on the idea for some time. However, since creating this "blog of my own," I've been frozen and unable to publish anything. This is partly due to the fact that I'm a slightly sleep deprived mother of two. The other part is due to the fact that I set high, often unrealistic expectations of myself. I think I've been waiting for inspiration to strike, wanting my first entry to say something sensational. But, in spending so much time thinking about what might be the perfect first post, I haven't allowed myself to just write.

Not tonight. Here's to silencing the inner critic and striving to think less so that I might do more.

Snow

Snow in the park, snow in our yard

Snow on our roof, seeping through, spotting our kitchen ceiling

Hand-shoveled mounds of snow lining our driveway

Snow piled along the streets

creating walls like the parting of the red sea

as cars creep, weary of what they can't see beyond the next bank.

Cold days, whipping winds, and brilliant sun.

My thoughts clear as I trudge through this frosty Narnia

peering at sunlight gleaming through barren trees