People are curious. A few people are. … They will put things together, knowing, all along they may be mistaken. You see them going around with notebooks, scraping the dirt off gravestones, reading microfilm, just in the hope of seeing this trickle in time, making a connection, rescuing one thing from the rubbish.

Alice Munro

My days are filled by seeing, connecting, and rescuing. I use words to put things together. I host parties, listen to podcasts, read books, watch peaches, and smell magnolias. I am always writing, seeking, and paying attention. I am always finding my edge, talking to strangers, and lighting lamps.

When I think about seeing, I think of the reciprocal notion of seeing and being seen. The gift of sight is both given and received. The difference between looking and seeing is depth and perspective. Breaths and ages separate the time it takes to see—the eternity of a blink. Seeing is simple.

Connecting reminds me of oneness — our interdependence — and life’s pulse, pace, and rhythm. I think of falling apart and back together. That flow connects. We connect in light, brokenness, and the gold that holds it together. We are connected in seeking to belong, to sing, and to love.

Rescuing and service are the essence of what it means to be human. Let me explain. We are made of scar tissue and stars. Inside each of us is the hope that we can love, heal, and grow together. In serving one another, we rescue ourselves. In rescuing ourselves, we serve one another. 

Rescuing is also about memory and story. Holding memories close. Telling and listening to stories. Remembering it all in the soft spaces the make us stronger. Rescuing is about truth and voice. Rescuing takes courage and patience.

What I Keep Learning  

Finding My Edge

The same stream of life/ that runs through the world/ runs through my veins.

-Rabindranath Tagore

“If you don’t jump, you will be stuck. FOREVER!” proclaimed my Kiwi tour guide. He looked directly into my eyes. He stared at my soul. We were outside of Queenstown, New Zealand, at AJ Hackett Bungee at the Kawarau River Bridge, arguably the home of bungee jumping. I was there to find my edge. The bridge is about 40 meters (roughly 154 feet) above the river. I watched several people jump. Despite my initial bravado, I quickly realized I would not be jumping. I was scared to death. I stood there holding a small section of bungee cord in my hand with a steel resolve and planted feet. I was not going to jump, even if my future would be damned.

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Ode to Sitting in a Booth

No matter how loud/ this bar, within these three walls we can drop 
straight into a very electric flight. We can/ pretend we don’t answer to anyone–including/ the waitress–& no one even knows where we are.

Aimee Nezhukumatathil

I have had conversations with strangers in restaurants and bars for as long as I can remember. I am familiar with the electric current of anonymity and ease, dancing through secrets to a place beyond trust. Trust is automatic and visceral. Protected by sparse context, we find the heartbeat of openness. Call the connection instinctual, mysterious, or curious. Oneness.

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Notebook, 1981

“I was so willing to pull a page out of my notebook, a day, several bright days and live them as if I was only alive, thirsty, timeless, young enough, to do this one more time, to dare to have nothing so much to lose and to feel that potential dying of the self in the light as the only thing I thought that was spiritual, possible and because I had no other way to call that mind, I called it poetry, but it was flesh and time and bread and friends frightened and free enough to want to have another day that way, tear another page.” 

Eileen Myles

I would see poetry if I tore a page from my notebook in 1981. I sang songs, explored trails, baked cakes, and rode bikes. Tap dancing and playing fiddle. In the middle of all that, I would write sitting on the basement stairs and hide my thoughts in a red folder marked “Top Secret.” (Labeling my poems “Top Secret” was inspired by chapter book heroes that always seemed to mark things “Top Secret.”) I chose the basement because that is where I would roller skate and play ping pong. I liked the joyfulness of it. I chose the basement because there was a little spot there where I could hide. I chose the basement because that is where I listened to Tapestry and Blue. I sat on the basement stairs and wrote poems. I had no other thing to call them. I took them very seriously. I never showed them to anyone. They helped me make it all make sense.

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The Poets Light but Lamps

The Poets light but Lamps -/ Themselves – go out -/ The Wicks the stimulate – If vital Light// Inhere as do the Suns -/ Each Age a Lens/ Disseminating their/ Circumference

Emily Dickinson

Many moons ago, I wrote my educational philosophy inspired by this poem. The years have taught me our core philosophies —the philosophies we do — don’t change. Though we are not yet, we are. What makes us tick makes us tick. What we are curious about we are curious about. How we make our way is how we make our way. How we figure things out is how we figure things out. Our tactics and strategies will adapt. The ground beneath our feet will shift. We will carry stones and climb mountains. Our philosophies remain.

My educational philosophy has stayed the same. We are Poets when we use our minds, hands, and hearts as Lamps to light the world. We are vital—light. Inspiration is infinite and looks like love in action. Inspired Light changes the Ages.

Paying Attention

Alice Munro: Encore presentation of Nobel Prize Talks

On Alice Munro, by Roxana Robinson

“Ode to Sitting In A Booth” by Aimee Nezhukumatathil

Pentecost is this [was last] Sunday. What the heck is Pentecost?

Tina Chang on Eileen Myles’ “Notebook, 1981”