Upon first morning steps outside the front door, my eyes rest on the smallish snow-like pebbles blanketing the ground. My work lately is to attend to these small wonders of the days that stretch out before me . . . distractions from the injustices and the anxieties of worldly events that dominate the screens.
I often ponder at how small one can go.
The sunshine seems too grand. The tropical breeze of 25 above zero (after weeks of 25 below) and the arrival of deer in the backyard all give me pause for gratitude, yet there are even more miniscule moments that go unnoticed, the less obvious. What Ross Gay calls “delights”.
How many can I capture on a given day? To carry me onward with more hope?
Reminders of this practice follow me around as Naomi Shihab Nye and Danusha Laméris have conversation about how these small moments in our everyday life offer us poetry for living. We neglected them pre-pandemic. Now, we admit, they are all we have to carry us onward.
On this particular day, these tiniest mysteries are spread out before me as far as my eyes can see.
Graupel, the internet tells me, is what it has been named. It screams to be a poem:
Graupel Bouncing snowflakes blanket the ground miniature Styrofoam balls formed in highly unstable atmospheres and convective currents warm air hugs close to the ground cold peers downward snowflakes tumble from the sky rain swaths it's melted tears cocooning the chill of winters end Shari Daniels draft~2022 I borrowed a few phrases from the internet to draft this poem, because sometimes I need help to get myself going.
I am participating in the 15th Annual SOL 2022 March challenge. For 31 days, I will attempt to write and share a small slice of life from my days. If you’d like to read more of today’s slices from other teacher-writers, please head over to twowritingteachers, who have also committed to this challenge.