What a line!

"And in this constancy, in this complete indifference to the life and death of each of us, there lies hid, perhaps, a pledge of our eternal salvation, of the unceasing movement of life upon earth, of unceasing progress towards perfection." - "The Lady with the Dog" by Anton Chekhov

How's that for poetics? 

Visions of Her

As I mentioned in class earlier today, I had the wonderful opportunity to present a short collection of poetry titled Visions of Her, which sheds some light on my own personal journey regarding grief and loss. In October 2015, my mother passed away unexpectedly, so I did a lot of writing. The poems that were the strongest were put together to make the collection which I presented at the Sigma Tau Delta 2016 Int'l Convention in Minneapolis, MN.

The poems presented at the conference can also be found in FIVE Poetry, an online journal published by FictionMagazines.com.

Here is one of the poems I presented:

My Mother’s Secrets

I.

My mother lived in the shadow of her death,

always forecasting black storm clouds over her head,

denouncing any chance for sunny skies.

She told me a secret before she died:
“The peculiar thing about a secret is that once you tell it,
it ceases to be itself anymore.”

She told me all her secrets—

in life and at the edge of her deathbed.

II.
Three weeks before you died, you told me
you were ready.

At 46, you were ready. Sure,

your life had been rough,
but I tried tirelessly to prevent you
from pricking yourself with thorns.

They were all stuck

growing inward like

an inverse rose.

III.
I remember your secret
about the gypsy-fortune-teller-girl.
How she threw down some dried-up old chicken bones
on a dusty pentagram-inscribed table
and told you she could read your future.
There was laughter

when she told you that in a past life

you had been a Chinese peasant worker,
but when she predicted you would die young,

you laughed harder,
even though she saw the fear in your eyes.

IV.

Some of your secrets belong
to a boy who cried every night,
a child who desperately tried to prevent
everything from falling apart.

His hands could never hold water.

You drowned him in a sea of suffering.
Your secrets are buried with him

in an unmarked grave.

V.

I had to let go of so much. You made me so

heavy and I wanted to be light.
You were supposed to be my anchor,
but instead you were the ball and chain
around my ankles,
drowning me once more again.

VI.

You were a woman who gave, gave, gave and gave.
Despite how much any of us sacrificed for you,

you gave back everything you stole.

Your most precious secrets were those that
only the backyard birds knew,
those who ate dried fruit and millet through winter,
and sugary-sweet-syrup in the summer.
Your secrets were carried away in the beaks

of ruby-throated hummingbirds.
Whenever I see them fluttering about,
it’s always you whom I think of first.

VII.

You were a woman with too many secrets.
I wonder how many of those
you guarded until death.
How many of your secrets were burned,
taken by the wind?
Now only the trees hear your whisper.
How many of your secrets are buried
under ashes in a silver urn?
I’ve opened it up,
but I’ve never found you—only dust.

VIII.

Your biggest secret was that you kept Death close,
like a dear friend to you.
He dug at your chest like a dog.
He haunted you at every doctor’s appointment,
hid beneath every scab.
He shared every cigarette with you,
every drink, every pill, every breath.
You got the best of him most nights,
but Death eclipses us all in the end.

IX.

I try to make sense of my feelings
in poetic rambling
because somehow admitting that your death freed me
makes me feel less guilty
if it’s done in the disguise of pretty words.
It’s not that I’ve been dishonest;
It’s not that I’m happy you are gone.
Yet when you died, your demons died with you.
And maybe by telling my secrets,
by writing myself,

like secrets,
these thoughts, these feelings,

all of it,
you, me, I, us:
we will cease to be anymore.

Reading as a Writer: "We Didn't" by Stuart Dybek

After reading "We Didn't" by Stuart Dybek, there is a lot to be discussed as far as the story goes. A drowned pregnant woman, a passionate couple on the beach, a relationship gone sour, the "Blue Ball Express." It's clear that Dybek's story is full of lots of great imagery, tense and emotional moments, and the haunting presence of the blue drowned woman who seems to be lurking just behind every word.

Reading this story as a writer, I must say that one of the things that most struck me was how intentional each sentence appeared to be. Nothing seems out of place in this story; every word and comma all contribute to where Dybek wants the story to go. The command of language, plot, and character in this story is real.

It's in the details

One of the things that makes this story so fabulous is the attention to detail. Throughout the story, small things really make this piece memorable. From a lost pair of shorts to the description of the drowned woman, all of these details contribute considerable weight to the story. We really get a sense of these characters, and especially their troubled relationship - from what they are passionate about to what they argue about, and how often, those two things overlap.

"It means the baby who drowned inside her that night was a love child - a boy - and his soul was released there to wander through the water."

Whether this line is just a strange fantasized version of what happened to the narrator's lover or something else entirely, I am not sure, but it is a detail like this which stuck out to me. This one, in particular, kept me wondering just what was going through this person's head. What is the meaning of the love child? Does it have any relationship to the moment the two lovers shared on the beach? Was the drowned pregnant woman some type of symbol? What did I miss here ... ?

Reflections on Meditation

I am a strong supporter of meditation in the classroom. Personally, I think that every class should start with a brief session of mindfulness, to get us out of our heads and in the present moment.

I believe that there is no activity more important in our society today than meditative practice.

Meditation has shown itself to be more and more important in my life. I strive to start everyday with 30 minutes of yoga and 30 minutes of meditative practice. This starts my day and allows me to be more mindful, which helps in my writing process because I notice more, remember more, and feel more in touch with my thoughts.

What I learned when I went on a Tibetan Buddhist retreat was that even the most Zen masters are bombarded by a cannonade of thoughts every day. That is just a fact. It is what the mind does: think. However, if we fail to be mindful, we will find ourselves caught up in this relentless torrent of thoughts, and we will come to identify ourselves with these thoughts. Meditation actively disengages us from this type of identification; it allows a space to open up where we can distance ourselves from our monkey minds and observe.

It's been my experience that once we begin to observe, we can learn to let go of those commonplace, repetitive thoughts that keep us stuck in our minds. By learning to let go of these, we open up a space inside of us where we can allow truly creative and genuine thought to emerge. These thoughts are where genius happens, and that for me is extremely important as a writer.

Can we learn to notice our genius among the mundane?

If you're interested in learning more about why meditation is great for college students, check out this article I wrote for The Odyssey: 5 Reasons to Start Meditation in College