#NewThisDay Writing From My Photo Stream
I'm excited to be easily awake, early, for a sunny morning. Charlie whines by the bed, he's ready. Soon, without Suzi, we're off into the fresh air walking by the sunny, blue skied river. And June is so cheerfully blooming. On a skinny side trail in Rocky Narrows through the wetlands by the river, I meet a sweet, small silver backed turtle making her way, every so slowly, in my direction. I stop, briefly, to greet her. Kindly, she reminds me take my time, breathe. Pace myself.
It's the morning of my Wednesday morning writers, and our last session before breaking for summer. I know exactly what will be on everyone's mind: crying children, separated from mothers and fathers. This morning it's sunny, warm, and we sit outside under the trees, in view of the pond reflecting the clouds and the pines, around the fireplace we used the other night in our open readings. The fire is unlit, but our spirits are. Before leaving home, I plan a warmup, choosing two poems that address themes I know will be on the hearts and minds of our collective; they're on my mind too. After we read the poems aloud, I prompt them to draw a map of what comes up for them from the poem, and then to write from the map, to establish a key that tells how it is to be followed. Everyone, of course, writes from her own unique voice and point of view. We take the time to listen to the anguish in each other's hearts. Of course there are tears. But laughter, too. I trust some of the first drafts of the poetry and prose spontaneously shared will go on to be developed during our weeks apart this summer.
“. . .
If they say you’re not American,
don’t pull out your personal,
wallet-sized flag. Instead, recall
the Bill of Rights. Mention the Constitution.
Wear democracy like a favorite garment:
comfortable, intimate.
If they wave newspapers in your face and shout,
stay calm. Remember everything they never learned.
Offer to take them to the library. . . ”
“The border is a line that birds cannot see.
The border is a beautiful piece of paper folded carelessly in half.
The border is where flint first met steel, starting a century of fires.
The border is a belt that is too tight, holding things up but making it hard to breathe.
The border is a rusted hinge that does not bend.
The border is the blood clot in the river’s vein.
The border says stop to the wind, but the wind speaks another language, and keeps going.
. . . .”
All photos and text ©Kelly DuMar 2018 unless otherwise attributed