hailstones for everyone

My daughter and I were riding our bikes home today, and the sky opened up and dumped down hail. It was so unexpected and so violent in the slanting way the ice pellets struck our skin that it was almost funny.

Well, the six-year-old didn't think so. She was furious, crying and completely miserable. I kept yelling up to her (over the pounding of ice pellets) just keep going, honey! We're almost home!

We did get home, put on dry clothes and ate a couple homemade snickerdoodles, and watercolored together (see new banner). We both had that feeling that we had just acquired a good story.

But, unfortunately, we didn't do any of those things before I felt compelled to deliver a motherly speech about being a good sport about circumstances no one can control. It was uncomfortable, I lectured, but it didn't actually hurt you. You were acting like it was your own personal hailstorm.

And right in the middle of that speech I understood that I was giving it to myself. We've had all this uncertainty lately, regarding work, and I've been stewing about it. Like I was the only one who could feel the ice pellets. But while it's uncomfortable, it's not actually hurting me.

And I'm going to have a good story when this is over.

however...

My computer still has a virus which has completely shut it down.

I'm still in the middle of a great deal of major uncertainty (I'll explain, friends, as soon as I can.)

However....

I just stood on our back deck, and the white blossoms from the two big trees in our backyard rained down on me. It is a green and blue and pale yellow spring day, with a bonus gentle breeze.

What else matters?

gesundheit, computer

Friends, my computer has caught a nasty virus. It's not pretty. Please check back soon for more Poetry & Biscuits. Thanks.

everything there is to know about Russia

The wise-way-beyond-her-years Stephani, who is raising three young boys in Texas and telling about it in her wonderful blog Blue Yonder, recently posted this idea (which she says is inspired by Lori's Camp Creek Blog, which truly is the original font of inspiration).

It's a simple idea, but somehow I needed it pointed out to me. When your child asks you a question you can't answer, write it down.

I've been leaning on this tired phrase: "oh, that's an interesting question. We should look that up."

I was called out on that. "Mom," my son said. "You say we'll look it up but we never do."

"What was it you asked about?" I asked.

"I don't remember anymore," he sighed.

I've carried a tiny notebook and pen in my purse forever. It says email Emily or return library books Monday--stuff like that. Sometimes it catches snips of poems or essay ideas. Often it's turned over to Leah for drawings or tic-tac-toe games in a waiting moment. Why didn't I ever think to hand it to Jacob? I don't know.

So, after reading Stephani's post, I reached into my purse for this notebook and tossed it to Jacob in the backseat. "Write it down," I said, "because I really want to know that too and we'll look it up together." His reaction was all I could hope for.

Here is a partial list of my son's research topics in the last few days, written in his own words and his own tidy, purposeful handwriting.

How tall is Mt. Everest in INCHES?

What is the gas milage of a Smart Car?

Where was President Garfield when he was killed?

What do fire extinguishers let out?

Everything there is to know about Russia.

Random acts of public happiness

I found this video via my friend Joan, who was the voice of kindness and reason on my dorm floor my sophomore year of college.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7EYAUazLI9k

This video gets better as it goes. I just love it.

I'm reminded of a wonderful woman I met years ago when I lived in England. (Steve? Are you reading this? She was a friend of yours. I don't recall her name.) She had started a volunteer group which, in twos or threes, boarded trains on London's Underground. They would begin to sing a singable, knowable tune, and invite anyone who wished to join in. They wanted to make a dent in the anonymity of urban life. They wanted to connect. Sometimes they would sing their song and then quietly exit at the next station. But sometimes, she reported, they'd get a whole car singing. I always meant to join them, but I never made it.

There is this video, too, which is good fun, but it doesn't quite have that element of boundless joy, does it?

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jwMj3PJDxuo

there is poetry in Cleveland

Here is my proof.

April 2nd, Willoughby Municipal Park, Cleveland, on Lake Erie.

(I photoshopped out a picnic table and two trash cans. Forgive me.)

why they are masters

Every day I make an effort to go toward what I don’t understand. This wandering leads to the accidental learning that continually shapes my life.
— Yo-Yo Ma

Ancora imparo.
[I am still learning.]
-- Michaelangelo, age 87