To celebrate the dawning of March, here is a photo from last March. I don’t think the aconite are up just yet, but I will check this morning on the way out to the car.
Two nights ago, I dreamed that Lady Gaga and her beau were touring the school one afternoon and stopped by my room. The Lady was enthralled by the look of the room, and told me that it must mean I was an excellent teacher. Look at me, fishing for compliments even in my dreams. I know where this one came from, of course. I had been pondering, as I fell asleep, how fascinating it is that all these sober and earnest Lancaster County Mennonites (I include myself in those descriptors) are suddenly three degrees of separation away from Lady Gaga: We know people who taught Taylor Kinney, who is soon to be Mr. Gaga. Does that make him Lord Gaga, perhaps?
This morning, I woke up in the middle of an etymological dream about the root jour, which my sleeping brain reminded me means day. I know that journal means the record of the day, so journey, I woke up thinking, must mean the day’s travel. Sojourn–how does that differ from journey? I looked it up a moment ago. The first part of sojourn comes from sub-, which means “less than,” so sojourn originally intended to indicate a short stay, whereas journey was about the travel from place to place. I am so glad that my dreaming mind had me clear up all that information. Perhaps I need to plan a journey, a sojourn.
This morning’s writing exercise is the Language Event I wrote about yesterday. I am going to try to do it as a free-write–as fast as I can–and see whether any treasures fall out of my foggy brain.
Say journey and mean day
Say blue and mean that you were out in the morning
Say wildness and mean longing
Say twilight and mean the way your soul whispers
Say birdsong and mean message
Say warning and mean that you need to move on
Say season and mean that you have become someone new
Say winter and mean that an old thing is passing
Say springtime and mean that the morning is dawning
Say morning sun and mean that you open your eyes
Say green and mean that you are nourished and fed
Say golden and mean that butterflies are returning
This has some possibility. I feel like I might want to keep a notebook and write ten of them a day, and then compile a Shaman’s Lexicon Poem, perhaps. If you want to do it, too, feel free. Perhaps our poems will meet some day in the ethers of the internet. I think I will add it to my list of poetry-writing exercises for the ninth-grade poetry unit.
1. Grandma Weaver’s afghan and old plum-colored recliner. Nothing says comfort to me quite like sitting here like this. Come to think of it, the white and blue quilt that is folded over the back of the chair right now was made by Grandma Slabaugh. (Say grandmother’s blanket and mean enwrapped by love.)
2. A clean house. (Say clean house and mean quiet mind.)
3. This sea-foam-colored scarf. (Say aquamarine and mean contemplation.)
4. Playing violin with Ellis on the cello yesterday afternoon with the winter sun sparkling through the windows. (Say music and mean my heart is dancing.)
5. The shenanigans of a silly five-year-old. (Say shenanigans and mean shenanigans.)
May we walk in Beauty!