Stinging nettles, Calla lilies

Nature is filled with paradox. On a recent walk to look for fiddlehead ferns, those furled beginnings that have to be picked only in the two weeks before they mature, open into the ferns you see by ponds, we also saw poison ivy, brushed against sharp branches. I can't describe the delight I felt finding these shy plants, curled up on the newly thawed ground. My daughter, Kira was with me. She is as familiar with the woods as she is with riding a bicycle. As an aspiring mycologist, she has learned the language of food that grows in dark and secret places--wild onion, morels, hen-of-the-woods, and oyster mushrooms. She is gone now--off to begin another kind of trek; that of higher learning.

We have finished our international book tour and Geraldine Mills has returned to Ireland. Last night I had my last coffeehouse with my writing students at the job I will leave at the end of this year. Endings also bring new possibilities. If I can learn to honor the seasons of things, I will become alert to the quiet places where the best words hide. I can move through the imagination like a native.

Connections

The culmination of two years of work, our collection of poetry, launched in Ireland this week. In this land of mist and rain, clouds broke and an unblemished blue sky has dominated the landscape all week. Each time I visit Ireland, I feel closer to the landscape and the people. To drive for hours down roads with few cars, patchy gold and green mountains, a stone walls rimming fields, a clear ocean and tiny inlets are the scenes I never tire of seeing.

We stopped at Kylemore Abbey for lunch, drove through Letterfrack where there is a cemetery for the boys of a now defunct school for the wayward, unwanted, or orphaned. In the 1960s the school was finally closed but many forgotten boys died young of abuse or disease. To walk by tiny heartshaped gravestones, identifying them only by name and age, is to feel the weight of all tragedies that overshadow our respective histories.

When we arrived in Westport, a vibrant coastal town, the sun was lower in the sky and the sharp, cool air of early evening was beginning to descend. We read in a small cafe called The Creel to a modest but engaged group. The intimacy of the setting and the discussion that ensued made this one of my favorite readings of the trip.

Earlier in the week, I met a woman who edits a collection of poetry from children all over the world--called Eurochild. I also met a filmmaker/poetry series host, two literary press publishers, numerous poetry readers, two young students of poetry, and friends old and new.

There is a reverence for poetry and language here that I often find lacking in the United States. I try to bring the dazzle and awe to my classes, competing with text messages, Facebook, sporting events, and everything else that pulls us away from the wisdom and resonance of words. I am renewed from encounters here, resolve to try anew to ignite interest and enthusiasm in my classes. When I return, I will be off on a reading tour that will continue to bring the language of poetry to people. How lucky to be able to translate landscape, culture, and emotion into poetry and to have the chance to communicate it to an audience. As exhausting as the week has been, I find myself grateful again and again for the graciousness of my writing collaborator and this rarest of opportunities.

New and Renew

I expect leaky faucets, blustery nights, loss, and disappointment. I also await robins, a rose-breasted titmouse, a family of goldfinches. A woman with teenage daughters died in my community this week--someone I didn't know well. An earthquake in Christchurch, New Zealand tumbled buildings, collapsing on students, workers, passersby. My daughter was in the town when it happened but she was unharmed. A close brush with a catastrophic event can be life-altering. I trust that light will return, gaudy and generous. Even now there are signs--tufts of trampled grass and patches of mineral-rich soil. In teaching, I find the writing that moves me. In writing, I renew my voice. A residency I applied for prefers emerging writers and my writer and collaborator Geraldine said, aren't all writers emerging? If we have crossed over from emerging to established, do we become complacent? Looking at the world--ugliness and badly behaviored politicians and drivers, then sudden loveliness--a child chasing a leaf, the smell of new earth after a rain--language seems unruly--something I must learn anew. I hope to emerge again and again, awash in language and sense.