How the Sun Rose

A middle-of-the-week posting. Very unusual for me these days. BUT this morning, on my way to school, driving over the Salter Bridge which takes me from the south to north end of the city, which crosses a hundred railway tracks - train cars covered with graffiti, clanging and banging, I turned my eyes to the east and there it was, the sky - coral, pink, blue, yellow. "I'll tell you how the sun rose - a ribbon at a time." Thank you, Sky. Thank you, Emily D.," I thought. I wanted to stop mid-bridge and just stare at it, but that would have meant stopping traffic and probably causing an accident or two. All the way to school, I kept my eyes on the sky as it kept changing. The sun rises so quickly. When I arrived, I pulled the camera from my bag and took these pictures. At school, my little group of nine year olds - all new to Canada, new to English, had been painting sunrises and sunsets, jabbering in Punjabi, whispering in Tagalog, laughing hysterically when they tried to teach me words and I had no clue how to approximate their sounds. Their sunsets on the wall and the pictures in my camera were another kind of language. We painted, we talked (English), put words around the room, and then they wrote poetry - very sweet sunrise/sunset poetry. If I had the poems at home, I would post them. But they are at school, on the inner windows of the hallways, a brave attempt to bring the sky inside with us, rather than leaving it at the door each morning when we enter the building.

Smack Dab in the Middle of November

The exact middle of November. Sunlight. Blue sky. Calm water on the river. Unrippled reflections. On a day like today, or yesterday, or tomorrow it is not hard to be grateful for the leafless trees, the invisible world made visible - all the nests of songbirds who are now gone. Nests that hold sunlight and sky - another kind of song.

In the trees, just off the path, a blue bird house. It's been there all along. Where have I been? Nearly every day in the the summer I walk along this same path, but seldom wade through the weeds and burrs to get to the other side. Obviously, I need to do it more often.

The sun sets early these days. During the week, it is hard to get home in time to walk in the light. If I was in charge of the world, tomorrow, Monday, would be declared a holiday, just because it is the middle of November and there is no snow on the ground and the sun is shining and the evening always comes too soon.

Summons

Where have I been for the past two weeks? I really don't know. Obviously, not anywhere near my blog site and not anywhere near a camera. Two weeks ago we reset our clocks. Two weeks I ago I began to lose my days. The sun is just rising when I leave for school, just setting when I get home - not enough light for any outdoor pictures, not enough light to keep me as awake a I would like to be. Today it was brilliantly sunny and 13 degrees celsius - a very unNovember-like day for us. My nephew and I raked leaves. When he got tired of raking, he threw himself down on a pile of leaves and said, "Cover me up! Cover me up!" He waited for people to walk by on their way to the church next door. When he heard them coming, he leapt out, shaking off the leaves and roaring, as they passed by. They were not as shocked as he hoped they would be. But still, he said, "Do it again! Do it again!" So we did. Over and over again. It was perfect picture-taking weather, but my camera was not at my house, so we have no pictures to save the day. Now it is evening and very dark - the moon is waning. Each evening, when I walk, I realize how hard it is to see clearly in the dark, harder still to take pictures. But that is no reason not to pay attention. Here is one of my favourite "walking-in-the-dark" poems:

SUMMONS

- Robert Francis

Keep my from going to sleep too soon

Or if I go to sleep too soon

Come wake me up. Come any hour

Of night. Come whistling up the road.

Stomp on the porch. Bang on the door.

Make me get out of bed and come

And let you in and light a light.

Tell me the northern lights are on

And make me look. Tell me clouds

Are doing something to the moon

They never did before, and show me.

See that I see. Talk to me till

I'm half as wide awake as you

And start to dress wondering why

I ever went to bed at all.

Tell me the walking is superb.

Not only tell me but persuade me.

You know I'm not too hard persuaded.

Forecast: Intermittent Light

My camera is always looking for flowers, for colour, for signs of blue sky. It has been grey for so long - all but one day since October began, but today there were small pieces of blue. The moon was there, too, between all those clouds - a pale waxing crescent. And there were wild asters still blooming - frills of petals surrounding more than a dozen yellow suns.

Summer and fall have been so strange this year. The leaves do not know what to do, so they keep hanging on. Usually, they would have fallen weeks ago.

Sunshine/Blue Sky

Today the sun shone. It has been cloudy for so long, I have no idea where my sunglasses are. Last week's snow is gone and the grass is still green - that last gasp of summer kind of green. My mom and I cleaned up my yard today - raked and bagged leaves, pruned perennials, planted tulip bulbs, swept sidewalks. By next weekend the leaves in the front yard will be on the ground - just a little more raking and we will all be ready for winter - the leaves, the trees, the garden, the grass. Me? I do not think I am ever really ready for winter, but sunny, summery pictures like this one help.

"Beauty is not a luxury but a strategy for survival."

- Terry Tempest Williams

Green and White

It is Thanksgiving weekend in Canada I am trying to be thankful for snow, but hoping that it is not permanent. The leaves on most of the trees are still green, the grass on the lawns, too. It is perfect snowman snow - sticky and wet. We should gather all the children we can find and start rolling and rolling huge snowballs, changing the white world back into green. In my backyard the lap of my poetry chair is white. The picnic table, too. And the leaves of all my lilies and peonies are heavy and drooping - the first night of frost was also the first night of snow. But the sun shone a little today, melting some of this away. I so much prefer the company of flowers to the company of snow. Lucky for me, the mums are still blooming, the sedum, too.

Stars On Her Toes

OUTDOOR SHOES

Anosha, at school, six years old with so many rules to learn - indoor shoes, outdoor shoes; Grade 1 Swing Day, Not Grade 1 Swing Day. Front of the line, back of the line. The classroom air fills up with words. With words and directions. "Everyone line up now. Everyone sit down now." But words, for her, are like the wind, impossible to hold, hard to see. And so, because words just blow, I take pictures for her. Swing. Book. Chair. Indoor shoes. Outdoor shoes with stars on her toes. After recess, after the swings, wearing her indoor shoes, Anosha draws and sings her own private song, letting me in, just a little. "Draw eyes. Draw eyes. Draw a shirt. Draw a shirt. Draw pants. Draw pants. A triangle! A square! A house!" My walls fill up with her pictures, my heart with her song.

My days, as a teacher, without my own class, flit by. A little of this. A little of that. Too many meetings with adults, too few with children. But then, there are gifts like this - 30 uninterrupted minutes with Anosha - her wide-open eyes, her glowing skin, her small hand holding a marker, her little song, pictures emerging in front of my eyes. For me, there is no greater joy in teaching than learning from children - sitting beside them, watching them, listening to them, following their lead so that I can be let in. They are the best teachers of all.