Stain-glass Eyes

If I'm to save it. I have to leave it. I must find a place. It needs hope, rest, a chance at life. I will abandon it without a glance behind. It will take a breath. I only smother, crush and keep it in pain. I limit its space. It coils more and more in fear of me. Blocks the blows it has come to expect. It covers itself from the screams of recrimination, hides from blame, the lectures, finger pointing. How can it NOT be better without me? Without my warnings, the darkness. I deplete my heart's will to live. It doesn't need my lack of care. I have no answer when it calls for help. No warmth when it needs shelter. I'm not its healer any more. I'm its killer, its nightmare. I set it on cliff edges, railways, and in dark boxes. I wake it up when it wants to sleep, haunt it, scare and curse it. I am not its blood source. I am the teeth that drains its blood. I leave it weak. I have no pity for its pain. Only

Dear Atlanta Community, I'm writing via e-mail from Istanbul, Turkey. I am living here now, but haven't forgotten where my heart has been for so many years, working in the Atlanta Community School. I've had a letter ready to send to the Tribune for more than a month. I was struggling with ending my long-standing relationship with you. (this sounds like a 'Dear John' letter) Now I feel it's more of a thank you, not a goodbye. When I made this difficult, unexpected decision to retire I had so little time to say goodbye. In reflection, I can see it was my denial of really leaving Atlanta for good. My escape from processing this huge decision was to focus on my resignation, all the retirement paperwork, classroom plan preparations and making the most of teaching my students in the few days I had left. Saying goodbye to those little faces was not an easy task. You have supported me, questioned me, educated me, and given me the huge family of children I call

I'm stepping down the narrow wooden steps. I'm thinking about what part of the step to put my wieght on. The middle, where it's worn darker? The unsturdy railing side? Or the left where it's rusty and the nails are gone? I'm going on the right this time. Hope there's no sound. There won't be any slivers to catch on my socks if I stay to the right. That always startles and stops me. I want to go quickly so there won't be enough time for the stair to crack and make me to fall through, or for the spiders to realize there's someone out here. This old shed gives me the creeps. I will not turn around and go back inside the house. I'll still have come back out here anyway, so I can go to the basement for potatoes. No one will go for me. Mom asked me to go, "Quick, go get me some potatoes". I wouldn't do it for them, either, I'm the one she asked. I was the one dumb enough to be in the kitchen while she is cooki

I want to start by sharing this poem by Walcott. When I heard Heidi read it live on her WCBN show, in Ann Arbor, I was mesmerized. (She posts all her shows on her blog. You can click on her blog to check it out.) The way she read it made me feel like I was there, willing loved ones back from the dead. Sea Canes By Derek Walcott Half my friends are dead. I will make you new ones, said earth No, give me them back, as they were, instead, with faults and all, I cried. Tonight I can snatch their talk from the faint surf's drone through the canes, but I cannot walk on the moonlit leaves of ocean down that white road alone, or float with the dreaming motion of owls leaving earth's load. O earth, the number of friends you keep exceeds those left to be loved. The sea-canes by the cliff flash green and silver; they were the seraph lances of my faith, but out of what is lost grows something stronger that has the rational radiance of stone, enduring moonlight, further than despair

this is Elizabeth's blog This is Heidi's blog