Don't Pity Him

A very satisfied walk down the hall together
after a wonderful afternoon
Noah Carver and Sarah Carlson

Cascade Brook School

(photo by Suzanne Carver)

Last Friday - September 25, 2015 - a dream of mine came true. And it was even better than I could have ever imagined. A young friend of mine, 12 year old Noah Carver, was the guest speaker at my school. He spoke to about 60 sixth grade visitors from the Redington Community of the Mt. Blue Middle School and then to all 300 or so third, fourth and fifth graders of Cascade Brook School. His topic was the growth mindset and persistence.

I first met Noah on the slopes of Saddleback Ski Area in the spring of his second grade year when I was assigned to be his guide through Maine Adaptive Sports and Recreation. You see, Noah is blind, has been since birth. Not long after that day, as I had the privilege of getting to know Noah - his mom, Suzanne and dad, Buzz better - I knew that somehow, some way I wanted my students to meet him - my students and as many others as possible. All the stars aligned and the result was an experience that I will continue to reap benefits from as I process. I know I'm not alone in that.
One of the things that came up as we had a question and answer time was a young man who said, "I kind of feel sorry for you." Noah hesitated as he pondered what to say to that. Since I knew the student, I said quietly to Noah, "I think that was meant with kindness." And Noah responded with insight and kindness.
That evening we sat around my dining room table and had an amazing conversation, led by Noah, about the difference between pity and empathy. The following poem is a piece that came from the experiences of the day and from processing further with the Carvers.
I'm posting it with the go ahead from the Carver family.

Noah sharing his recent successful Katahdin experience                              After introducing Noah to my fourth graders

 Don’t Pity Him

His name is Noah.
He is blind,
but don’t pity him.
That would be a waste of time.
His positive energy permeates a room
and resonates with any one who
has an open, caring heart.
You can’t help but be moved
by his enthusiasm for life.

Noah is honest about the fact that
life as a blind child has its challenges,
but don’t pity him.
He doesn’t want that and, in fact,
I think it makes him feel a bit feisty.
He wants you to feel WITH him,
and it is a fantastic ride when
a person decides to
climb on board the Noah train!

So if by chance you have
the good fortune to meet Noah Carver,
please don’t pity him.
You’d miss out on the chance to
benefit from his articulate messages
of love, hope, persistence, and fun.
Take the time to empathize with him,
exploring all that is good and right
in a wonderful connection with a young man
who has so many important abilities.

And remember…
Don’t pity him.
There is no room, no need for that. 

by Sarah Carlson
written for my friend Noah Carver
as I continue to process his amazing
presentation at Cascade Brook School on
September 25, 2015

My Own Two Feet

Mt. Rainier National Park - August 2014

I just finished this piece and, as I did, I realized that I had this picture in my head from my trip last summer. 

My Own Two Feet

Taking a full, deep breath I fill my lungs with
clean, crisp air.
My experienced, yet tender feet are firmly planted
on the sweet, solid earth below.
My wide open eyes gaze upon glorious mountains
in the distance and reflective waters nearby.
Grasses sway in a gentle breeze as
wildflowers pulsate with color and happiness.
Mystical swirls of water vapor form
fair weather clouds in the radiant blue sky.
Tears begin to work their way to the surface,
representing hard work, deep exploration,
amazing shifts, residual confusion.
In this moment, though, I softly brush them  aside.
This is a time to savor, celebrate
and I can cry later.
I reach my arms out wide wanting to embrace
all that is,
all that was,
all that will be.
There’s more to do, more to know,
more to grow.
But I’m okay, we’re okay.
We’re becoming one
as we move into wholeness.
I’m standing on my own two feet,
right here,
right now,
grateful for my gifts, my life,
happy to be me.

Sarah Carlson

August 5, 2015

Have Faith

Double Rainbow - Mercer, Maine (July 2015)

Have Faith

Through life’s mountains, valleys
and mill pond moments
I know now that I’ve had faith.
Sometimes as I slogged through the muck
I do admit that I wondered.
But there has always been a
protected, pristine place within
where belief in God lay in wait.
It emerged when I needed it,
but in ways that were not always
easy to recognize due to traumas
that warped my lens, skewed my perceptions,
and twisted my spirit.

Through carefully constructed defenses
I found love, and love found me.
Messages from the sky,
woods, and flowing waters
 were delivered to me in times
of stress, despair, and loss.
I’ve battled stale learnings and vigilantly allowed
my self to set my defenses aside in order to heal.
As I tenderly look back I remember multiple times
 when I stumbled, fell or was cast aside,
but I cherish the benevolence with which
I forged ahead.
My strength, courage and compassion
have long been in play.
I  am learning to be more fully secure
in trusting my knowing.
And I know that,
both Within and Without,
I have faith.

Sarah Carlson

July 5, 2015

Light - Within and Without

Photo by Emma Carlson/Emily Rooney - Northern Forest Canoe Trail

I haven't written much lately, but recently I remembered two versions of a piece that I wrote last spring. I'm not sure which one I like best, so I've included both of them. I think these surfaced now for a reason - to help me move ahead. Enough said... here they are:

Light - Within and Without

Kayak slices through the waters

of a beloved river

as it meanders 'round rocks and trees

that dip from banks

eroded by the barrage.

Human skin soaks in the rays,

the being within smiles at the shift.

Inner radiance weaves its 

way to the surface,

merges with

the beams from our nearest star - 

reflecting,

refracting,

revealing,

releasing,

Light.

Warmth spreads about the misty morn

as water vapors reach for the sky.

New grasses sway in a gentle breeze,

shadows mimic the dance.

Whitewater ahead pulsates, gyrates,

beckons.

Kayak and human cavort as one,

follow the flow,

travel the torrent, then...

bask in the warming glow -

reflecting,

refracting,

revealing,

releasing,

Light.

Sarah Carlson

April 15, 2013

Light

Sun twinkles on crystalline snow

left behind by stormy days.

New grasses sway in a gentle breeze,

shadows mimic the dance.

Wave crests sparkle on a deep blue lake,

every-changing with the will of the wind.

Multi-hued leaves lay on the ground,

colors enhanced by the breaking dawn.

Warmth spreads about a misty morn

as water vapors reach for the sky.

Dappled panorama in a valey below,

sun plays hide and seek in the clouds.

Moon emerges over nestled hills,

ow clouds backlit by its glow.

Distant stars glimmer in an ink black expanse,

their radiance traveling through time.

Kayak slices through the waters 

of a beloved river

as it meanders 'round rocks and trees

that dip from banks

eroded by the barrage.

Human skin soaks in the rays,

the being within smiles at the shift.

Inner radiance weaves its 

way to the surface,

merges with 

the beams from our nearest star - 

reflecting,

refracting,

revealing,

releasing,

Light.

Sarah Carlson

March 16, 2013

New Light

A few weekends ago I had a wonderful time with some good friends at the brand new Stratton Brook Hut, which is part of the Maine Huts and Trails system. Our bunk room looked out over the Carrabassett Valley toward Sugarloaf Ski Area, where I've had the good fortune to ski since I was 3 years old. The dining room of the main lodge looked out over the Bigelow Range. It truly is a beautiful spot, a lovely space to unwind and recharge.
The picture above is of the sunrise on that Sunday morning. And the piece below is something that came during a busy school week following our weekend getaway.
 

New Light

I awaken, having the sense that

dawn is near.

I stretch tight muscles, tentatively

putting my feet onto the floor.

I open the door and gaze out over

the valley of my youth,

noticing the hint of colors caressing

the distant ridgeline,

bare tree branches dancing against

the backdrop.

My eyes take it in as my brain ponders

the meaning of it all.

I lean on the railing of the overlook

and settle in to simply watch and wait.

The colors become deeper, then begin to lighten

as the rocks, trees, and snowy spaces

become more distinct and defined.

I breathe in the brisk morning air and

wrap my jacket more closely around

my body.

I wonder, then, where is the sun?

When will the new light fully spread its

warmth and illumination on

this glorious scene?

And just as I think I must go inside,

there it is!

Ah, the sweetness of that new light,

bringing with it possibility, hope,

and renewal.

New light sweetly enveloping

all that I know and love.

New light illuminating all

 that is

right here,

right now.

Sarah Carlson

March 20, 2013

Dear Sarah

                                                               (photo by Emma Carlson)

This weekend I've really been missing Barry. I have experiences I want to share and events I want to process. This feeling has been one of gentle sadness, simply something to be felt and honored. I just so badly wanted to talk to him. I miss that conduit, the give and take of conversation with that person I loved and who loved me back, who just got me as I am.
I'm taking a writing class that is part of the Maine Writing Project and one assignment we have this session is to write something in a voice that has been silent. I've done something like this before (see 2010 entry titled A Conversation) in which I wrote to Barry and he 'wrote' back. When I wrote that piece I was in the very early stages of actually allowing my self to grieve. I decided to 'talk' to him again and, after a time of journaling during which I wrote to him, the following piece came. This time it was quite amazing how different it was to converse with him. And Barry, in his mellow and caring way, knew just what I needed to hear.

                                                                Dear Sarah,

It has been so long since I’ve been there

to put my arm around you and watch our children,

to feel your gentle touch and see your warm smile,

to share your love.

I know you understand that my love is still strong,

that it is a part of who you are.

 I know that you’ve wrapped it up

and keep it tenderly

right where you need it to be.

I smile as I witness you learning to love yourself.

I marvel as you intrepidly

keep putting one foot in front of the other.

You are sweet and strong, lovely and learned,

caring and kind, tender and talented.

I knew these things from the moment we met,

but now you can recognize and honor them for yourself.

They are inherently yours.

I am so proud of you and I know that you feel pride, too.

I am here and you are there -

each where we are supposed to be.

You may not know why, but it is good and right

that you now realize

it doesn’t matter.

It just is as it is and you are okay.

You chose to go into the sorrow you felt so strongly

in the days and years after my death -

a sorrow that unlocked a need to unravel and examine

other tragedies in your life.

But all that has slowly been transformed

and enfolded into your core

of beauty and light.

Keep going dear one.

You have many more learnings to share, students to teach

mountains to climb, roads to pedal,

words to write, memories to make.

I wish you well

as you continue to free yourself to feel deep joy,

experience new love, delight in happy times,

and immerse in the wonders of a

world that, fortunately,

includes you.

With deep love and admiration,

Barry

Sarah Carlson    March 2, 2013

Blind Faith

                                                            (Photo by Suzanne Carver)

Last week I was fortunate to be able to volunteer at the New England Blind and Visually Impaired Ski Festival (NEVI Fest) held at Sugarloaf. I've been a volunteer with Maine Adaptive Sports and Recreation for the past several years and have had many, many touching and empowering days with incredibly courageous people. But being a part of the NEVI Fest seemed to take things to a whole different level - 30 intrepid, inspiring blind or visually impaired skiers and over 70 compassionate, dedicated volunteers. The energy of the group was deeply wonderful and participating was truly a life-changing experience. Here is my attempt at capturing some of the feelings/sensations of being a blind guide in alpine skiing:
 

Blind Faith

He softly holds my arm, quietly

letting me know that he trusts me.

He cannot see, has never been able to,

and I am to be his guide.

We are student and teacher, both.

We walk out the door and he patiently waits

while I set his skis next to his feet.

We fumble for a bit, but eventually

 are ready to descend the first gentle trail.

I take a breath and gaze out over the valley,

 silently acknowledging that

this view I so dearly love,

that is ever-changing with the seasons, the clouds,

and the light of the sun,

is something he cannot enjoy.

We start down the slope as I carefully

call his turns,

the other guide making sure that

all is well.

We find a tentative rhythm and I see that

he sometimes fights the hill,

hasn’t quite internalized that

he is dancing with the mountain

and that it is on his side.

They are a team,

we all are.

I believe that I know what he needs -

a blind faith of my own.

And it starts to dawn on me that he

seems to know that I know.

We talk a bit, the give and take

of teacher and student, both.

I marvel at that blind faith,

at the trust and the courage that he,

one so young, displays

 as he does learn to feel the hill,

find his rhythm

 and dance his very own

mountain dance.

 I’m in awe as I again gaze

across my valley and see the tips of the peaks

bathed in the light of the low afternoon sun.

I feel a smile all through my body

 that is accompanied

by the sensations of

accomplishment and deep gratitude.

I’m not blind, I can see –

but it’s what I feel as I realize that

I deserve the blind faith

 he has put in me.

Student and teacher, both

sharing a faith in each other

 that actually

is not blind

at all.

Sarah Carlson

February 16, 2013

Beautiful... Being

There is so much that I could write to explain how this poem emerged. It has taken quite a while to come, but it wasn't at all stressful to wait. In fact, it's been really sweet. Many 'ah-hahs' have happened over the past few months - things I had thought I already understood, but that have now truly become embedded in my fabric. Many, many meanderings and I'm very grateful for all that has come from this extremely labor-intensive personal work. I'm so glad that I chose to head into the darkness, the hurt, so that I could release and learn and grow. That's not to say it hasn't been difficult at times. It has really been quite a ride. It is, however, very tiring to hurt and it occurred to me recently that at some point one must choose to walk away from the pain if possible. Walk away and take all the learnings and understandings into the newness. And I think now is the time for me. Of course I know that life cannot be without difficulty, but I finally realize that it is deeply right to feel good whenever one is able, that I don't deserve to be in pain all the time. This is the piece that explains all this as best I can at this juncture...:)
  -->

Beautiful… Being

 Bones for structure, muscles for power,

skin to hold us in.

Lungs for breathing,

eyes for seeing,

 hearts for beating and feeling.

Minds for contemplating, processing,

wondering, remembering, believing.

Past experiences - both good and bad,

happy and sad,

interweave to provide a

 flexible  structure with which we

have the ability to use our free will to

interpret and inhabit this world.

Each of us a body and soul

that form an inherently beautiful being.

Gratitude for all that we are,

all that we have.

Hopes for inner peace and understanding

of personal power  while

maintaining and cultivating

 a connection to Nature, Nurture

and Love.

Sun and moon and earth,

together in the cosmos,

provide a place where it is

inherently beautiful… being.

Sarah Carlson

January 1, 2013

Dappled

I haven't written in quite a while. And lately I've been doing quite a lot of feeling, very much a meander. I realized this weekend that these feelings have mostly to do with my father's death last fall. During the last full conversation I had with him before he was taken to the Togus hospice, I basically helped him know, that if he felt it was time,  he could let go. I told him I was okay and that I would figure out how to handle some things he was concerned about. It was the truth and, as he tearfully thanked me, I felt his relief... and his love. So it makes sense to me that I've looped back to some feelings I thought I had moved beyond. And, though I am extremely at peace with my husband Barry's death, I deeply miss him right now as I process Dad's death. I miss my soulmate and I miss my dad. Though I am sad and a bit confused, I really am okay.  But I sure could use a hug.

Here's a poem that formed today.

Dappled

My world is dappled right now.

There’s the brightness that comes from

allowing my inner light to shine,

but darkness interweaves with that light.

Like sun shining in through a window that brings

with it the shadows of the leaves as they dance

in the morning breeze or

the grays of a cloud

as it drifts in a sky of blue.

I try to trust that it’s safe to simply be my self as I am,

but I feel like I’m missing something and I

don’t always understand my relationships.

There have been many times when I’ve felt full and free

and right and strong in the company of others,

but often something has come along to trip me up

and make me wonder anew if I’m better off alone,

if I should hide in the shadows to protect myself.

I feel deep gratitude for so much that’s good

in my life and I’m no longer afraid to feel joy.

In fact I know I, like anyone else,

deserve to.

I think it’s residual despair and loneliness that form

the part of the darkness that lingers.

I’m working on turning to faith -

in my self, in my connections, and

in the benevolence of the Universe

so that I can work with the shadows,

 learn more from the shades of gray.

Sarah Carlson

August 19, 2012

Emergence

(photo by Mardy Bogar)

Emergence

Emerging from behind gentle hills

studded with stately evergreens,

bright with reflected light from

our closest star,

the familiar orb slides upward

through the dusky sky.

Low, opaque clouds threaten to 

obscure the view.

Yet, in truth, they

enhance the majestic scene

as it is appreciated by

human beings waiting 

and watching below.

Like a silvery sand dollar

just below the surface of the salty ocean,

the moon embarks on its journey

above our world 

once again. 

Sarah Carlson

March 2012

Solitary

The sweet softness of the world around me during and after the recent snows provided a pathway for this piece. A familiar theme, but through a somewhat different lens.

Solitary

Singular snowflakes waft down from above,

destined for a temporary perch on

bristly branches, silent structures,

weaving waterways, luscious landscapes,

furred or feathered friends.

Perfectly complete on their own as they descend,

the angles and edges of their forms

create an intricate, crystalline whole.

On their solitary journey there is

no need to struggle or resist.

They simply go where air currents take them,

trusting

as they become

part of another whole for a time,

then melt away

to eventually flow anew.

Sarah Carlson

March 1, 2012

Slow Dance for My Dad

It's been quite some time since I've posted. But today I hung a copy of this picture and this poem in the brand new Emery Community Arts Center on the University of Maine at Farmington campus. It's the first time I have done such a thing and I'm truly grateful to be part of a show that Penny Hood, local artist, has put together that features an array of artistic interpretations of her theme... we... are connected. It is sweetly satisfying to have a small part in, to feel a belonging to, this endeavor. Here's a link to more info about it -
http://inside.umf.maine.edu/2012/01/25/emery-community-arts-center-presents-interactive-exhibit-%E2%80%9Cwe-are-connected%E2%80%9D-feb-6%E2%80%93march-10/

The poem is one I've posted before, but made changes to after I decided to share it at my father's memorial service. And so it seems fitting to post this today along with the words I wrote to accompany my piece.

Slow Dance

Careful circles above the fray provide perspective and distance,

room for reflection, a bird’s eye view with time

to twist the lens for further acuity.

Each turn of this slow dance makes way for more to unwind,

leading to relief and new insights.

Round and round -

circles cross and connect to become interwoven,

creating a sweet, soft tapestry that envelops a being

so that it is finally safe to let go of all that no longer serves.

Settling into a new way to be, freeing a true self,

feeling worthy of fully experiencing

the wonders of the universe.

Deep realization that by trusting the connectedness,

feeling the love, believing in the light

it is safe and right to spread strong, steady wings,

join the winds of change

and soar.

Sarah Carlson

And the words to my 'bio' that are hanging next to the photo and poem:

Connecting to the natural world has always been a part of my life. Sensations, feelings, deep understandings that come to me as I hike, pedal, ski, paddle in our beautiful part of the world began to surface in a poetic voice as I adjusted to life after the sudden loss of my husband, Barry. Eventually that voice and photography merged as I found new ways to express my process. This piece emerged after a lovely experience with a bald eagle. I read it to my father, long my biggest fan, as he lay non-responsive, yet peaceful, in the Togus Hospice this past fall. In doing so, I felt a connection to him that went beyond words and images.

Heartsong

This is a poem that has taken all summer to emerge. The title and the first line came into my head during a yoga session at School Street Yoga at the beginning of the summer. But I couldn't seem to go on and I felt quite stuck, though not really in a bad place. I just had the sense that there was more to do, that I needed to move but I didn't know quite how or where. Several experiences, including the hike/climb up the Hunt Trail to Baxter Peak on Katahdin, led to my having some interesting energy today. I got a lot done, but all morning I felt that there was something more that I needed to do. And that's when I recognized it as 'poetry energy'. Then I remembered that I had written one in my journal over the past few weeks and there it was - Heartsong in an almost finished state. I do know that much of what it says is in my earlier works, but again there is a different depth, something more - at least for me. So... here it is.

Oh - and in this picture on Baxter Peak my heart really was singing. It took a lot to get there and so much of what is in this poem came together in the moment this picture was taken.

Heartsong

There is a song my heart does sing.
The primal pulse has been within me
since my days in the watery womb.
Constant company during my emergence
and as I continue to stretch into
my being – growing, learning, living, loving.
Multiple melodies weave themselves together
as the insights gleaned from
all I’ve unraveled and explored
provide opportunities to compose
new rhythms that join with that solid, steady, sweet beat.
In the moments when the busy-ness of my mind settles
I become more and more able to hear
the authentic music of my soul.
I slow down and move to stanzas that were written
during each phase of my life.
Grief, gratitude, fear, joy,
despair, trust, loneliness, love,
and the spectrum betwixt and between
shift and synthesize to make a sumptuous symphony
for me to experience, celebrate, expand, and share.
I just need to allow my self to let go,
to finally truly trust that it is safe
to soar, enfold, dance,
freely connect with
the splendid, solid song that
my good and caring heart does sing.

Sarah Carlson

August 8, 2011

Mountain waterfall

A few weeks ago I had another amazing experience on Katahdin. I had the opportunity to be a part of group of eight people who hiked/climbed the Hunt Trail. I knew a few of the people and met the others the night before our adventure. I had been on Katahdin the previous summer - up and down the Saddle Trail - so I knew the ruggedness of the mountain. But the Hunt Trail, though gentle at the beginning, is an incredibly challenging endeavor. Once we reached the rocky ledges before the tableland I became pretty maxed out, physically and emotionally, and later spiritually. This was not at all a bad thing, just intense. The group I was with banded together to help each other in so many ways and the caring support was an integral part of the experience. There was one point where tears surfaced for me. I tried to hold them back, but they were not to be denied. I can clearly admit that they were in part due to fear (it was VERY steep), but there was much more. The support was part of it and I also had a very subtle connection to Barry. I had the sense that he was there in the background, sort of lending his appreciation from afar. I wasn't looking for it, but it was definitely there, and in those moments I felt so very grateful for so many things.
This poem, I think, surfaced as a way of explaining those tears. The above picture is of Katahdin Falls which we passed fairly early on during the day.

Mountain Waterfall

Luscious liquid falls from solid ground
into the freedom of the air.
Some molecules softly dissipate into mist
while others,
bound together by earthly forces,
crash onto protruding rocks, roots, and trees.
One way no better than the other,
they coexist in that space
at that time
to make a lovely display
of the sweetness and surrender
of letting go
and the strength and courage
of flowing ahead.

Sarah Carlson

August 26, 2011

Enfolding

I was quite taken with the row of day lilies that were along the eastern side of Burnt Island near the lighthouse. I went up there several mornings to watch the sunrise and ended up taking several pictures with the lilies front and center. One of my favorites is one that I took one afternoon after a storm had come through and the sky had cleared. Hanging out with those lilies made me think of this poem and, when I read it, I realized that it means something a little different to me now than it did when I wrote it. I already shared it in an earlier post, but I want to share it again.

Enfolding

Like a rose she opens

to her world

anew.

Like a day lily

she curls in

at night.

Opening and closing she

tests, tries, tarries a while

when it feels

right.

Her eyes see things she

didn’t recognize

before.

Her mind functions

more in tandem with

her heart.

She wraps her arms

around all that is

hers,

beautiful body,

open heart,

active mind,

loving soul.

Embracing all that is

within and without,

she knows that her gifts

are hers

to honor and share.

Enfolding - going in

to all that is good,

instead of going

away.

Sarah Carlson

July 20, 2008

A visit to the lighthouse tower

One evening during the week long Nature Journaling class on Burnt Island we were invited to go up into the lighthouse tower. We gathered outside the structure as the sun was going down on the other side of the island. Elaine told us some of the history and then a small group of us went into the tower with her. By the time we reached the top it was dark outside, but we were accompanied by Elaine's enthusiasm and deep knowledge of the history and significance of not only the Burnt Island light, but several others that we could see. The following poem is an attempt to capture that truly magical experience.
The top picture is one I took just after sunrise as the morning light bathed the tower. The bottom picture is of the sunset over the keeper's house just before we went into the tower.

A Visit to the Lighthouse

Spiral staircase winds upward.
Once tread upon by the keeper
as he refueled the lamp,
now it takes us,
students of the island,
to the top of the tower.
We stand together
in the company of the pulsating light,
awed by the feelings stirred
within us as we soak in
the history, the energy, the strength
of the stalwart structure.

Sarah Carlson
August 3, 2011

Power spot

As we were gaining our sense of place on Burnt Island we were asked to choose a 'power spot' - a place we were especially drawn to that would become where we would go to work on our Nature Journals during parts of the week. At first I wasn't sure about being able to pick one spot because the island had so many lovely nooks and crannies. But there was one place that did seem to call to me. It was just below the lighthouse on some rocks by the water.
Above is a picture of me in my spot and another of the view to my right as I sat and worked in my journal.

Power Spot

Rocky perch by the water,
light watches down over me.
Evening breeze surrounds
as the setting sun gently
paints the sky.
Artistic attempts,
though tentative and halting,
lead to feeling settled,
connected, peaceful.

Sarah Carlson
August 1, 2011

Tiny rocks

One of the first activities that we did on Burnt Island as part of Nature Journaling was to go exploring on our own on the trails and along the shore (it's only 5 acres) to get used to our surroundings as well as begin to look at things more closely - in other words, to give us more of a sense of place. We were to collect specimens of four things that caught our interest in small vials that we had made into 'explorer's necklaces'. One of the things I chose was sand from the small beach area. When we returned we made 'slides' of our findings by using notecards and packing tape. Then we were able to look closely at our tiny discoveries through magnifiers. I was just in awe of what I saw on my homemade slide. The following is a short piece that I wrote after this experience.

Note - the above picture is just one of several that I took of the rocks of the island. I don't have any of sand...:)

Burnt Island Sand

Tumbled, tossed, slammed, splintered.
Giant rocks transformed
into tiny multi-faceted grains.
Part of a greater whole,
and complete on their own.

Sarah Carlson
August 1, 2011

Ocean rhythms

Well, I haven't posted in a while. I'm working on a poem that just doesn't quite seem finished called Heartsong. Perhaps I'm still learning to let my heart truly sing, not sure. I do know that the poetry comes much more slowly now. I'm thinking that's because I am incorporating all that has come over the past few years into my life. I feel the need to be more patient, and that actually feels good.

A few weeks ago I had an amazing week taking a Nature Journaling course for teachers on Burnt Island. It was just so wonderful to be on that little island soaking in the environment and the learning. I did learn to draw a bit as we did many wonderful science based activities. But of course, the need to write was there, too!

The first day we were on the island it was very foggy. When Elaine Jones (instructor AND boat captain...:) picked us up at the dock we really couldn't see much at all. The island isn't very far off Boothbay Harbor, but we could have been in the middle of the ocean for all we could see. The horn of the lighthouse was sounding, due to the dense fog, every 10 seconds. Some people were bothered by that, but I really liked the rhythm of it in the background and could somehow put it where I needed it to be.Later in the afternoon the fog lifted and it was like a present slowly being unwrapped as we took in the vistas from our island perch.

I will most likely write more about the experience later, but I wanted to post this poem that I wrote on the first day there. It was written as the fog was lifting, but the horn was still blowing.
I like how so many of my other pieces wove their way into this one - it's about what I was experiencing in the moment, but about so very much more at the same time...:)

Ocean Rhythms

Soft swells sweep toward the rocky shore.
Bulbous seaweed sways back and forth
on the surface of the salty liquid,
accompanied by the luscious sound of water
lapping onto land.
Sailboat saunters by with mainsail and jib
working in tandem to move the vessel
quietly into port.
Multiple engines throb in the distance –
lobster boats hard at work maneuvering
from trap to trap checking for crustaceans to sell.
All the while the steady pulse of the
Burnt Island Lighthouse
announces solid presence.

Sarah Carlson
Aug. 1, 2011
Written while sitting on a rock
by the Burnt Island boathouse
First day of Nature Journaling class

Be

Well, in the chaos of ending school in a building where I've taught for 21 years and packing to move into a brand new space, along with preparing to ride in the Trek Across Maine - this poem emerged over the past week or so. It came gently and in phases. I carried it in my pocket in its various stages all week and in the quiet of the weekend I think it has now reached completion. It's a bit longer than what I usually write, but I think that's because a whole lot of things came together in this one - an effect of reaping the harvest of a great deal of very hard and important work.

Be

Dark and light, day and night,
shades of gray in between.
Colors of the spectrum,
limitless hues of eclectic energy.
Waltzing grasses in a spring-green field,
frolicking waters of a woodland brook,
billowing clouds that throb and pulsate-
part of a cycle as old as time.
Twinkling snowscape lit by the orb
as it rises above the hills.
Majestic eagle circling, pondering,
connecting as he searches for
whatever he needs.
Slippery sun setting over the horizon,
sky awash with lively light.
Natural world revolving around
and through us as we live, breathe,
be.
Spouses sharing a contented, joyful look as they marvel
at the antics of their precious offspring.
Enlightened mother enfolding her baby
with protection, acceptance, love.
Sympathetic friend listening, lending
support as emotions spill over rocky banks.
Little boy, tear forming in the corner of his eye,
sweetly sharing his feelings of fairness.
Tiny girl, whose fear surfaces from beyond
her knowing, gathering her breath to move on.
Caring adult choosing to be present and honor
who they are at that time in that space.
Moments of our lives unfurl, unravel,
move one into the other as we live, breathe, feel
be.
Do we notice? Are we aware?
Or do magical moments escape us in the
busy-ness of everyday living?
Ocean waves break and roll onto
a sugar sand beach, spread themselves thin
as they explore the nooks and crannies of what
holds them up.
Their molecules seem to fill every void,
some going to ground while others are
pulled back into the waters at large.
Either way, they are part of a whole.
Solitary, yet integrated.
If we look – up, down, all around -
If we pause and
choose to notice, be aware,
we can capture
the magical moments that are so abundant
in the busy-ness of everyday living
as we live, breathe, feel, immerse,
be.

Sarah Carlson

June 7, 2011