Celestial Energy

Celestial Energy

She lays back,

feels the warmth of the sun

on her aching body.

She notices a healing energy

making its way all around

and through,

particularly in her hips

and core.

She absorbs, connects,

feels her fluidity rearrange.

At the very same time she wonders

how it can be true,

this sense of openness

and freedom from suffering,

even as discomfort is present.

Slowly she realizes that this

is yet another twist of the lens.

Just because one has been wounded,

witnessed and felt suffering,

learned to take on the distress of others

does not mean that is how it must be.

Her profound

sense of unity with the sun

is true and real.

As the pain from injuries sustained

in her tumble on the bridge

once again gains footing,

 she understands that,

though it is valid,

she doesn't have to allow

perceptions anchored in her past

to be in play.

In fact,

she can use this experience

to continue to dilute their strength

more and more and more.

She smiles with a knowing that

all vessels below have opportunities

to connect with,

reflect on

celestial energy from above.

It's right there all the time.

She feels so grateful

for another lesson learned

along her way.

Sarah Carlson

July 30, 2020

Novel Ways to Shine

Sunrise over Lower Shin Pond, Maine - July 20, 2020

Novel Ways to Shine

Evening waves lap onto shore
as loon calls echo.
Bullfrogs engage in deep debate
as I slowly settle
into night’s slumber.

Morning light seeps ever so quietly
over the now-still pond,
rocky sentinel peeks
from behind and above

 flowy clouds.
My eyes open,
heart soon follows,
mind drifts
to the decision of yesterday.
Only a day,
and I awaken to such newness.
I walk to the dock,
sit, watch the changing scene unfold.
I breathe… deeply,
allow it all in,
all out.
I feel the truth of me expand,
with a knowing that I did the right thing,
difficult though it was.
My own light will not diminish
because I had to let go –
for me.
In fact, I do believe that,
just as the sun makes is way
into each uniquely new day
and morning light widens,
 I will find
novel ways to shine.

Sarah Carlson

July 20, 2020

The Familiar is Gone

The poem above was a gift from one of my amazing students the year before last. It's been hanging in my home since then. Yesterday, as I was contemplating what I've been hearing and reading about my profession, it begged my attention. I'm pretty sure that moment happened as I watched a press conference about moving toward in person instruction that was being held virtually.
You see, I've been slowly and reluctantly moving toward sending in my retirement letter. This wonderful child's words helped me see why, in part, that has been so very difficult.
I'm not really ready to stop teaching. I love what I do and, as I read this, I realized a large part of my hesitancy is that I don't want that spark to diminish. The fact that she noticed and reflected it back to me is/was such a gift. It warmed my heart in so many ways. And she knew that. That's the beauty of teaching from the heart. The connections, the time shared, the lives touched - including your own.
Reading this also helped me see that there are other ways that I can connect. I have boxes and boxes of my second book that need a home. My spark is in them, too. And, I think my own radiance will find other ways to shine through. I'm going to have to trust in that.
I wrote the following words yesterday as a Facebook post and am including them here because they have resonated with many people in my beloved profession. My heart is with them and all teachers who are faced with decisions being made right now that deeply affect their well being.

I keep hearing about how well the state of Maine is doing (which is wonderful) and how we must stay the course, so to speak. How important it is that we are using masks, maintaining distance. How there are wildfires burning in so many other states and how those fires can infiltrate our state within a matter of days. At the same time I, a veteran teacher, hear about how important it is that we get back to in person instruction. That part of that will be a need to check the metrics every so often. 'So often' being undefined at this point. And then I wonder these things:

Do the people making the decisions about in person teaching realize how many teachers are out here wondering how in the world that can even be being considered - because of those wildfires? Teachers who care and would love to be with kids, but, really... with the fires???

Do they know how incredibly stressful teaching had become - before COVID-19? I say that as a fact, not a complaint. I actually love finding ways to help and connect with amazing beings I work with each year. But things have changed a lot... and now...

Have the policy makers really stopped to think about the implications of layering the stress of the many uncertainties that COVID-19 brings on top of the aforementioned stressors?

Are they fully aware that everyone in education - students, teachers, and absolutely everyone else - suffered varied levels of trauma last spring? That some of us have dealt with our trauma, while others have not had the time or the support or the chance?

Do they understand that for some of us the last time we were touched by another human being might have been a hug from a student as the day ended on Friday, March 13th?

That we've been maintaining physical distance since then?

And now you want us to be immersed in people? With wildfires burning all around?

Can you really imagine being in say, a fourth grade classroom, with any number of students who may have fearfully ridden a bus to school and then will be meeting someone who is behind a mask and can't come near them? Though teachers will do all we can to make students feel welcome and safe - how can that truly happen with those wildfires a part of our lives right now? I value truth with my students - from me to them and from them to me. How can I truly make them feel safe when no one really knows if it will be?

How is it that we are in the middle of July and we have no clear direction? I know there are lots of unknowns, but seriously why do we keep hearing such mixed messages...

We're doing great.

It's still dangerous.

Keep your distance, stay home.

We'll keep meeting virtually, but we need you to be in school ASAP.

Why haven't we looked at other alternatives like being outdoors, talking about what really did work during remote teaching, how we could connect with our new students in a staggered schedule outside to get to know each other at a distance and then go remote until we know what really is the truth about safety?

Why are we constantly inundated with the message that schools need to OPEN when we really didn't close? I know that I was more wide open than I have ever been. Once I felt safe at home, after the week or so of knowing that change was coming, something bad was happening - I, like so many teachers, opened up to brand new ways of doing the job I thought I already knew how to do, but had to reinvent. I didn't miss a beat. Well, maybe one or two. But it didn't take long to get creative and dive into making things work. I just don't know how I could make in person work just now. And I (again like most teachers I know) am pretty darn good at making things work. But.. the fires are burning and probably will be for some time.

The familiar is gone. It cannot, will not be the way it was. Why is that truth being overlooked?

Why?

Above

View from Casco Bay Trail, Wolfe Neck Woods State Park, Maine

Those moments on the bridge (see In Between) continue to teach.

Above

When I fell on that bridge
and could not go on,
it was life changing.
Like that bridge,
I’ve borne a load without question.

That day, those moments
on the bridge with my friend
opened me up
ever more deeply to me.

I’m realizing now
 that my span is magical, too.
In pain, dizzy, breathless, unsure –
 somehow I had a sense
 of being above.
I knew there was more to it
than just the fall.
Both in the midst and
above the fray once again.
My body let me know
 that I simply had to sit, wait,
let the in between be.
I needed that lesson.
As the pain of my injuries slowly subsides,
I realize once more
 the things that matter
are not that complicated,
 come naturally if we let them.
Love, Health, Connection,
Empathy, Trust, Peace.
All part of our make-up,
marvels of engineering that we are.
More evidence that in stopping
there is movement.
Like soft summer clouds
above gentle ocean waves,
accompanied by the whisper of a breeze
in evergreen trees,
there is a freshening
to being neither here nor there,
to allowing time for suspension.

Sarah Carlson

July 17, 2020

4 Roberts Avenue

Drawing of 4 Roberts Avenue by me - 1967

I remember drawing this picture of my childhood home. It was for an art project in 5th grade. I'm pretty sure I had put if off and by the time I got down to business I had to hurry because of incoming rain. I can actually remember the drops starting to fall and running for the breezeway. I don't think I even had time to put my beloved black bike into the garage before the downpour came.
My parents loved this and it hung in the house from the time I brought it back home from school until I took it down a few months ago as I cleaned out the house.
Today this piece came as I process the sale of the home that my parents bought just before I was born.

4 Roberts Avenue

My address from birth to 18.
The key was ‘hidden’ on the second shelf
of a corner cupboard in the breezeway.
On the left was the door
to the funky garage that housed
Merry Meeting Black Jack’s kennel
and my brother’s darkroom,
but never, ever had room for a car.
Breezeway and funky garage
no longer exist,
except in my memories,
replaced by a large entryway,
heated garage,
and not-quite-finished addition.
On the right was the door to the kitchen,
once a sort of disjointed affair,
but redone, made more open in 1971.
The wonderful screened-in back porch
became a lovely sunroom in 1986,
but the rest of the home didn’t
change much over the years,
at least not its solid structure.
I’m saying good-bye to that house
and I feel content with new people
making its spaces their own.
It most definitely is time for that.
But I miss my family, all three.
Geof, whose bedroom and mine shared a wall,
who was diligent in his studies and his fitness,
who made sure that all his Senior friends
helped out his Freshman sister
at Waterville High the same year
as the kitchen remodel.
Dad, who tucked me in every night
in my little green bedroom,
listening to tales of my day.
Mom, who took such joy 
in the house being ours, hers,
and intrepidly maintained it as home
until she could no longer.
Once the four of us, now only me.
I just miss them.
4 Roberts Avenue,
I’ll miss you a bit, too.

Sarah Carlson

July 12, 2020

In Between

I recently had quite a crash on my mountain bike. A slippery bridge after some rain, a branch that caused a slight weight change as I ducked - and down I went. Hard. Into the rails with my arm, ribs, and head. I was with a good friend who came back and sat with me as I worked to get my bearings. I tried getting up and realized I needed some more time to just sit on that bridge. With my friend. Eventually we made it out of the woods, but not before we had a wonderful talk about some changes we were both going through in our lives.
It's been a week or so now and sparkling moments of that conversation keep coming back to me. This piece is a compilation of some of the gems that came from sitting on a bridge after a tumble.

In Between

A bridge goes from one side
to another.
From here to there.
Yet, when you get there,
it’s actually a new here
and onward you go.
I’ve been thinking lately
that the spans of bridges actually
 have something to teach.
Marvels of engineering,
it is those spans where
the true magic resides
as they miraculously
bear the load.
I think it wise to
pause on a bridge
every so often,
take a look at what’s going on
below, within, above.
Whether a bridge
crosses some muck
on a woodsy trail,
carries you across
flowing waters,
 takes you over a path
that leads somewhere else,
there’s something soothing about
 suspending in the moments
of in between
and being
right where you are.

Sarah Carlson

July 10, 2020

It's Time for Truth

Artwork by a fourth grader who made this poster to help welcome my new class a few years ago

I am taking a bit of a departure and writing in prose. Though I do it with caution, and mindfully, I really needed to put this out into the world just now. Thank you in advance to those who choose to sit with these words.

It's Time for Truth

    It’s time for teachers to share our stories, to speak our truths. Like most educators I tend to quietly weave the intricacies of teaching together to provide a fabric of safety and love for my students. That continued in the shocking change that happened on March 15, 2020 - the day we found out that we were to teach from home starting the very next day.
    We had two days to get materials together for take-home packets and then a few days to begin to figure out what things would look like from there. I live alone and so had plenty of time  to attend the amazing webinars and content specialist meetings that the Maine Department of Education provided. I taught myself how to use Google Classroom and had help from some cohort-mates from an online mindfulness class in learning how to use YouTube. I used that to provide math lessons, moments of mindfulness, and read-alouds that led to nature journaling. And on it all went. I, like so many teachers all over the world, changed the way I approached teaching in a very short time. We really did turn on a dime. I took the words of  Pender Makin, the Commissioner of Education in Maine, to heart. I dove in and ‘fearlessly educated’ my students.
    Though I missed face to face interactions with my students, there was much I did like about remote teaching/learning. I felt safe and free to use my innate creativity to find my way back to interacting with them. Most climbed aboard with the help of their wonderful, supportive families. The ways they did that varied depending upon circumstances, but I welcomed them in whatever those ways needed to be. It wasn’t totally smooth sailing, to be sure. But, with all things considered, it wasn’t a total loss as many people seem to think. We were most definitely not a sinking ship.
    During the time of remote teaching I achieved the goal of independently publishing my second book of poetry and photography. Now, like many authors, I have boxes and boxes of books with limited opportunities to get them into the world. In addition to that I was also trying to find ways to support from afar my intrepid, elderly, visually impaired mother who lived alone in a neighboring town. 5 weeks into remote teaching she passed away. And so began the work of adjusting to that, taking care of a house full of memories, and the many other aspects of dealing with a loss. I did not take any bereavement time because I didn’t want to leave my students adrift. The way our contract stipulated that time had to be taken just didn’t fit the circumstances. So I just kept on going. As the school year ended I was in the beginning stages of planning a way to lay both my parents to rest in the midst of a pandemic. Again, on it all went.
    I share all this because it’s a glimpse into the world of this human being who happens to be a teacher. Looking back I honestly don’t know how I made it though. But now, here we are at the beginning of July with a new school year looming. We’re hearing all kinds of scenarios and possibilities, with many, many opinions about what should happen next. So many of those opinions clearly come from perceptions that are not at all grounded in the realities of the public school setting. And time is in very short supply.
    What’s really true is that we just don’t know what will happen if kids return to school. What’s clear is that our country has not handled this pandemic in such a way that we can feel safe to gather together. What’s painfully obvious to those of us who work in school buildings is that the logistics of physical distancing and the other CDC guidelines are mind-boggling.
    I can honestly say that, as an educator with 30 years of experience, I don’t know that I can ‘fearlessly educate’ in person in my school building. I’ll go further into honesty to say that I don’t know that I even want to try. It may be that I will need to do something that I, along with most educators, rarely do. That being, put myself first. Though I do not feel ready to end my teaching career, it may be that will be the best choice for me. I have to put away feeling selfish or entitled and sit with what’s true. I have selflessly given my support, my guidance, my heart to hundreds of students and families over the years. It may be that I need to offer that to my self at a time and in a society when the feelings and needs of educators are often overlooked. I say that with love. But, it’s true. My hope is in writing this is that others may find a way and a time to share their stories, too. Because it really is time for truth.

Sarah Carlson
July 7, 2020
Farmington, ME

My Mother's Garden

My Mother’s Garden

She devised a seemingly beautiful space
 inside our home.
But, it was outside
where the real beauty took hold.
An open field
that gradually became
a meandering garden
with trees for shade
and places to rest.
She created it over time,
a place for her respite and delight.
I tried to join her there,
but we were usually going
in conflicting directions.
At least that’s how it felt.
Occasionally,
our paths would merge,
but it was brief
and I couldn’t seem to match her step,
 perhaps wasn’t meant to.
I knew to follow love,
even came back to be married there.
The last time I talked with my brother
was right there, too.
The disjointed, confusing
 energy of the place
has been present throughout.
But now as I prepare
to fully walk away,
I can more freely reap the benefits
of other seeds that were sown.
Athleticism, strength, courage,
ability to find hope, no matter what.
I have those with me, too.
I can recognize and allow the blossoms
of my mother’s garden.
I can be me right where I am.
I don’t have to be
there anymore.

Sarah Carlson

July 3, 2020