Herman Melville and Me

I'm writing a new book that I never in my wildest dreams thought I would write. It is a biography of Herman Melville. For kids. You might be thinking, why for kids? And I might say, because Herman Melville had an incredible life and most kids don't know about it. And I might add that kids love interesting characters with extraordinary lives. And Melville is such a character. I used to love reading biographies when I was in elementary school. I never read one about Melville. Sure, I heard of Moby Dick when I was little, most kids have heard of Moby Dick, who hasn't? But there is so much more to Herman Melville than Moby Dick. My hope is after reading this biography of Melville, a new wave of Melville fans will emerge.

I have never considered myself a biographer, but my co-authored book, "A Free Woman on God's Earth" is the juvenile biography of Elizabeth "Mumbet" Freeman and writing it with my co-author, Ann-Elizabeth Barnes was a joy. We added flesh and blood to a person very few people ever heard of. We want Mumbet to become a household word and now, more and more people know about her. Is it because of our little book? We like to think so. Our job was to get her story out into the world in a very accessible way and I think we did that. From there, it takes on a life all its own.

So now, Melville. Sometimes is feels like a Herculean task. There are so many Melville scholars and so many scholarly biographies of this, the greatest American writer, possibly ever. So what I am doing is a little daunting and I'm slightly intimidated by what has come before me. But I like to think that no one has done what I am presently working on. I know of no biographies of Melville for children. Perhaps mine will be the first. And this excites me. And scares me a little.

I'm the very first Writer-In-Residence at Herman Melville's home in the Berkshires, a position that I never dreamed of obtaining. But sometimes in life, we are lead to places and people we never dreamed we would go or meet. I love my position at Arrowhead. I love sitting in Herman Melville's chair, looking out his window and writing from that place. It inspires me. From Arrowhead, my colleagues and I have created a wonderful program for children we call "Inspired by Melville." It's a writing program for students, third grade to high school. And it was from this program that the idea to write his biography for children came. There was not one I could bring on my school visits. We have graphic-novel versions of Moby Dick, we have abridged versions, even pop-up versions, and I bring those with me, but like I said, there is way more to Herman Melville than Moby Dick. And I want kids to know about the person he was.

I've got to get back to work.

Paw Prints On a Purple Bench

I painted the bench in my hallway this week. I painted it purple. A deep dark elderberry color that makes me happy when I look at it. I put the finishing touches on it yesterday. The bench sits under the window looking out onto my driveway. The bench was made from wide pieces of polished wood that in a former life was part of a shelf system that used to hang on the wall of my bedroom and was full of books. I am a recycler by nature. 

I am learning to let go of things, but I save things like wooden shelves. You never know when they will come in handy. They call it "upcycling" nowadays and it's very trendy. I guess I'm ahead of my time.

Jordy, my sweet brindle Pitbull Lab mix often perched there on his hind legs, watching for cars pulling in, and was always there, paws up on the bench, head, practically out the window, when he heard my car pull in. I got mad the first time I found him there, one deep scratch marring the newly polished wood. I sanded the spot but it never was the same. 

My stomach would tighten with anxiety over my bench every time I saw that goofy face looking out the window from his spot when I pulled in from anywhere. The one deep groove became a series of grooved patterns, the bench, pretty much ruined. And then one day I decided to cherish the fact that my dog was waiting for me, and wood was wood. Who cared, really?

And now my brindle boy is gone, lying beneath the tree in my yard that blooms pink in the spring. The tree is about twenty feet high now, but was a sapling, a mere six inches when I got it as a gift for joining the Arbor Society. Jordy might have been a tiny puppy when I planted that tree. Like the tree, he grew strong and broad and eventually mature. But trees live longer than dogs, and he now lies under its broad green leaves, next to its roots.

I don't know why I didn't take a picture, and I regret it now, but the other night I went to admire my new purple bench and looked down at the place where Jordy's scratches are now purple scratches, and there I saw what looked like a paw print. I swear. I tilted my head to the side and discovered two tiny cat prints as well. I have two cats, so that's no surprise, but above the cat prints I know I saw a big print. A dog's paw print. I'm telling you. I called my daughter down and she confirmed it. I should have kept it. I didn't. But I know it was Jordy stopping by to let me know he's still here.

Saying Goodbye to a friend

There's a flowered chair that sits in my living room and it's empty these days. It was Jordy's chair. When he sat there it was covered with blankets for softness and to prevent him from shedding all over it. It is lately uncovered to reveal the lovely flowered pattern and it is mine now. I sit in it and try to imagine his soft, furry warmth draped over it, from head to hassock. I try to feel his presence, try to fill an emptiness that is palpable. The emptiness washes over me and comes upon me at odd times. It mainly comes when I walk downstairs and see the chair, devoid of dog. No soulful eyes looking at me from over its arm, no stiff, achy old boy needing help to get down from it and make his way to the kitchen for his breakfast.

I have lost a dear friend. A friend I took care of and loved for over 15 years. My children were tiny when we brought the little guy home. A who knows what ~ Pitbull/Lab? Boxer mix? Brindled and gorgeous, he was our Nigerian Lionhound. My children are adults now and Jordy is gone. Wrapped in a blanket, under a tree in the yard.

But when he lived, he lived! Every moment filled with joy. Running in the woods, on the beach, catching balls and sticks thrown, gulping down snowballs caught in midair, digging in snowdrifts, rolling in who knows what, stealing the lemon cake and eying the turkey, sneaking his way up on the bed, one leg at a time.
Oh, he will be missed.

Here's the poem I wrote for him on his passing:

May golden light guide your way

And fields of flowers dance at your approach

May you be met by loved ones, soft and warm,

Our loving family; Dulcie, Indy, Skye, Kelsey, Vincent and Tamina

And may friends; Henry, Pippi, Haiku, Mack and Merck greet you too

Your kindness and warmth, your love and licks, your sweet gentleness

will never be forgotten and will live inside us for all of our days

And may you take our love for you in your heart as you make your way to the place

of happy days and running through fields and catching sticks and lemon cakes and splashing in the sea

Your soulful eyes will watch over us and as we sit in your favorite chair,

Which will become our favorite,

We will feel your presence embrace us, washing us with love

The most loyal love there is

The warmest and most unconditional

The truest love under the sun

Dog to person, person to dog

us to you and you to us

We speak soul to soul and we understand

We know

And when our time comes to leave this place, we expect you to be there

Waiting to greet us, tail wagging, ready for a walk

We love you.

Godspeed, Jordy. 

Books can heal

It's been a week since the devastating tragedy in Newtown, Connecticut at Sandy Hook Elementary School and I have tried to find words to express my feelings on this subject. I am a writer, I should be able to write something profound, but I am at a loss, still, for the right words. I am sitting here in my kitchen, sick with a cold the size of Texas, waiting for my tea water to boil. The rain is pouring down tears. My head aches, but so does my heart as I scroll facebook messages, as I read articles about a funeral for a little 7 year-old boy attended by the entire NYC Fire Department, as I remain quiet, reflecting in my moment of silence. This tragedy has cloaked the nation. These are our children.

I sent books to Sandy Hook School along with a promise to come to the school to write with the children, when they are ready, and if they want me to come. I hope they will.

I have tackled life-altering subjects before. My book, Elephants of the Tsunami dealt with the December 26, 2004 immense tragedy. The book was sent over to Thailand on a healing mission. I wrote that book to heal my own sorrow, and for the children I taught, who were scared from afar. I never thought it would be sent to Thailand and I was worried that it would hurt those Thai children, that it would bring back memories of that day. But Wachiramat, a Thai teacher working with 600 children in the villages of Khao Lak and Pang-nga, where 5000 people lost their lives in 5 minutes, told me that the words were so beautiful and that even though the story was sad, it helped the children heal. The children would never forget that day, but the book brought them out of themselves for a moment.

How do we heal? Time, maybe. Love, for sure. Pie, absolutely. Books? I'd like to think so. 

All I can do is what I can do. I can't bake a pie, I can't sing or play the guitar. But I can write and when I do, all my love goes into what I write. And I have written, co-written and edited books for children and teens. All those books are in that box.

So when that box of book arrives at Sandy Hook Elementary School, my hope is that the children will pick them up and read them and laugh and be taken away to that wonderful place only books can take us, if only for a few precious moments. That is my wish. 

Looking for Purpose

The birds are at my feeder this chilly, windy morning. They seem frantic. They can't seem to get enough of the oily black sunflower seeds I put out for them just yesterday. The storm has passed, the leaves are almost all fallen, my daughter is safe in New York City and my parents are without power still. Maybe the birds aren't sure we're safe yet.

I took a run today down a country lane to clear my cloudy head. Lots of boughs were on the ground, but the air was clear as I ran. After a storm kind of clear. Lots of things stirred up, making room for what's coming next.

I've been thinking a lot about my purpose here on this fragile planet. Am I a writer? Am I a teacher? A poet? A jeweler? A mom? A friend? A sister, daughter? Maybe I am all of the above. Maybe I'm allowed to be everything and not have to choose one over the other.

I made a bracelet the other night. It was made with leather and beads. It fit just right. I wrote two poems yesterday, and neither of them rhymed. I called my mother to see if she was fine, I took a walk with my sister, texted my daughter, had dinner with friends. Kissed my son on his head as he went off to work. Fed my dogs and cats. I loved.

Is that enough? Maybe it is. Maybe there is inspiration everywhere. I think I just need to remember that.

Tonight is Halloween. Samhain. The night the veil between worlds is lifted, when humans can dance with the fey. I wrote a book about it. It just won a silver medal. I can write another, I can. And I will. Maybe I'll even go out into the moonlight tonight and step into the between. Who knows where I might end up. But that's what it's about. The not knowing. The process. The journey.

Summer of Faeries

What a summer! Full of sprites and faeries, real and imagined. I've been to Spoutwood in Pennsylvania, and Enchanted Ground in Guelph, Ontario, to Maryland and Binghamton, NY where the fey world is alive with dancing, singing, fire circles, pageants, processions, and a faerie rade or two. Fiona, Maggie, Rionnag and the rest of my fey family were introduced to readers young and old. Here are some pictures of the people I shared my summer adventures with.

A Teacher's Year to Cherish

For anyone who questions why the U.S. should adopt a fair and tolerant policy toward immigrants, try teaching ESL, even one class. Get to know an immigrant.

I have been teaching English since I was seventeen years old in various forms and descriptions. I have taught abroad and at home, I’ve taught privately, one-on-one, and in large groups. I’ve taught mothers with babies at family centers. I’ve taught businessmen and doctors, factory workers and dishwashers.

I’ve held classes in my kitchen and on my patio, in church basements and in high tech classrooms, even on living room floors in the Bronx. I’ve taught children and I’ve taught adults. I have taught literally hundreds of people to speak, read, write and understand English.

My students have come from Vietnam, Burma, China, Czech Republic, India, Guatemala, Mexico, Colombia, Ecuador, Germany, Cambodia, Laos, Nepal, Tibet, Kazakhstan, Russia, Greece, Brazil, Peru, El Salvador, Thailand, Taiwan, The Philippines, Costa Rica, Japan, Italy, Hungary, Dominican Republic, Indonesia, Hong Kong, France, Poland, and from many countries in Africa including Ethiopia, Burkina Faso, Liberia, Congo, and Ghana just to name a few.

People who don’t understand the nature of teaching English think I must be brilliant to be able to speak ALL of those languages. They ask me how I learned so many. When I tell them I do not speak all those languages, and I use ONLY English when I teach, they are shocked and confused. But my students understand.

English is our unifying language and whether we speak it through pantomime at the beginning level, or move on to read and discuss literature at the advanced level, it is what binds us and makes us into a community.

After years of teaching children, I have returned to adult ed, teaching advanced ESL. I have never been happier. I love getting up in the morning and I can’t wait to see who will come to class. Sometimes the classes are full and there are not enough chairs. Sometimes, there are only a handful of students, and occasionally there is only one. No matter what the situation, there is always something to take away from the experience. In my classes, we learn more than just grammar and vocabulary.

In my students I have seen appreciation and gratitude, I have seen tears, laughter and I have learned their stories. Many, many stories. Sometimes heart wrenching, sometimes heartwarming. All uniquely individual. All adding to the tapestry that makes up our community. Our country. Our world.

This year, I have had the privilege of teaching people from all walks of life and many cultures, to watch them grow into more confident individuals, getting closer to fulfilling their hopes and dreams.

To my students: It has been an honor and my absolute pleasure to share my story with you, to become friends with you, to watch you make new friends with each other, and to teach you. Because of all of you, I have the best job in the world.

Thank you for giving me such a rewarding reason to get up in the morning.