I Still

Is that what writing, really, does for a person? Stills the body, narrows the mind to a pinpoint or widens it to an ocean, quiets its restless, ceaseless, relentless motion. Forces coherence, a slowing of thought.

I began a tanka challenge this month. I got the idea from Geneva Eby at One Brave Thing.

“A tanka [pronounced Tonka] is a thirty-one syllable poem consisting of five lines,” she explains. “The lines have the syllable rhythm of 5-7-5-7-7. These poems are normally one sentence portraying a picture, event, or mood. I was so intrigued by this form of writing because it had just enough structure to challenge me and just enough freedom to entice me. I made it a goal for May to write thirty-one tankas in thirty-one days.”

I liked her idea and I liked her poems and wanted to try it for the month of July. However, I made it through nine poems before my tankas tanked. Not because I wasn’t enjoying it. I simply forgot. But I will share a few of those I did write throughout this post.

#1
I am scared to write
a tanka. Too scared and rushed, 
hurried, worried, stretched--
like a rubber band stretched tight--
my life a litany of do. 

#2
Summer leaves scattered
on the blueberry netting
where a lone robin 
flutters, confined in the space
he thought to find blueberries. 

This month was blueberry month. We have big, beautiful blueberry bushes probably twice as tall as me, planted by Ivan’s dad years ago, loved and enjoyed by many since for their extra-large, extra sweet, silky-coated berries. It makes me feel all romantic and earthy to pick them, like Little Sal from Maine.

Annalise, too. This year we played a game where she filched a handful of berries from my bucket while I said, “No, no, Little Annalise, go pick your own berries. Mommy wants her berries to put in the freezer for winter.”

She wanted to play this game over and over again, until I realized my berries were disappearing a little too quickly due to all the filched handfuls, and strongly encouraged another form of entertainment.

And one time I looked up from picking blueberries, hearing a tap on the window, and saw this little sign, courtesy Ivan.

It’s the little things, isn’t it? Little things like kind words, stopping for the groceries, jokes and tickles, acceptance of everyday quirks, that are so much more meaningful than a dozen red roses on a holiday (though those can be meaningful as well).

#6
A moment alone, 
tired, eyes drooping when daddy 
and kinnah have gone
to the store. Sweet dreams he said
when leaving. Maybe I will. 

The feature photo above shows Annalise and a few of her cousins, eating blueberries from a small red wheelbarrow.

Here’s another of Annalise and Teddy with cousins, this time playing dress up.

And one of Teddy at my mom’s family reunion, with two little country cousins just his age.

#5 CAUGHT
Perched in the open 
hatchback with the children, rain 
pouring, pounding roof,
flowing down tin walls, spouting
from drainpipes, then hush. 

My fig trees are shooting up since I put tree guards on them. I was amazed at the difference I could tell in just a week’s time.

Here’s the backstory:

Last summer, I sat beside a man named Dirk on a plane. He is a Christian and a gardener and his ancestors are from Holland and he grows fig trees. Did you know that figs come in many different flavors and varieties, like apples? I had no idea.

“I’d love to taste a fresh fig,” I said.

“I’ll send you some slips if you want me to,” he offered.

I wanted. He sent them this spring.

One of these years–soon I hope–I will taste a fresh fig. Seven of the twelve fig slips I received are doing just fine.

#9
Fireflies flash in grass,
dusk settles and children run
laughing past, his arms
tight around my waist, his beard 
scratchy soft against my cheek. 

This month, I updated my website and tried to more thoughtfully categorize many of my past blog posts. In doing so, I came across many that surprised me. I forgot I said that, thought that, met that person, shared that guest post, etc. I think I like reading the old ones best, when I was living in my parents’ home pre-publishing days, foot-loose and (mostly) fancy free. I seemed unassuming and innocent in a way I wasn’t later, when I got more public and self-aware-sounding, I guess.

Here’s this one about a road trip with my siblings. I’m glad I captured some of the camaraderie and sibling banter. Even not so many years later, I forget.

And this one, about my pre-marriage view of love. It is still basically how I feel, surprisingly. Love is love, and not mustard.

Next time I should have an adventure to tell you about. My children and I will be traveling. In the meantime–on the road and in between–I think I’ll resume my tanka challenge. Join me if you like.