​Even in this strange and uncertain time, we can find reasons to celebrate. Two big reasons come to mind this month.

​April is National Poetry Month, and if ever there was a time to read poetry, it’s now, when many of us have extra reading time and are looking to fill our minds with something other than dire news reports.

​​This month also brings the 50th anniversary of the first Earth Day next Wednesday, April 22. Though the mass celebrations that had been planned will no longer be possible, we can still commemorate the day.

Combining these two celebrations, National Poetry Month and Earth Day, I asked local (and not-so-local) poets to contribute Earth Day poems to today’s blog. I’m happy to share those with you now, along with the collage I created for the occasion.

As I worked on the collage, I went back and forth in my mind about whether to portray the vision of a healthy Earth that many of us had on the first Earth Day in 1970 or the reality of Earth in 2020. In the end, I opted for the more hopeful vision, because I want to believe there's still hope. 

​Once the piece was done, however, I noticed it's darker than most of my other collages (many of which are now posted on the COLLAGES page on my website). Perhaps in the end, my Earth Day collage reflects both hope and concern, themes you'll find in the poems below.

And now, poetry.

The way the sun drips through the trees
feels like the tart sting of oranges
sliced through on a cold winter morning
the shadows sway on uneven stilts 
purposeful but perhaps a bit drunk
hawks flying through the thin mist
 
we did not come here to talk
but to recall bloodlines and bruises
to watch the ache of God's wounded finger
find its solace in the sky
we came to watch the forest settle
shivering around an old circle of coals
 
To pull new yarn out of old wool
to re-dye the worn, faded blue
to an unspoken, holy red
to choose new stones to throw
into the solitude of the lake
to settle into the night
and watch the fireflies shiver and shake

​I struggle to recall the words of those long-ago incantations,
but I can still feel the sun, and the sand spray of those of us
 
who ran down to the continent’s edge to shout wild oaths
and promises, twisted and torn from the wind itself.
 
Hoping for what exactly? I don’t recall. A certain slant of light,
or a feeling of home on the sun and sea-blasted turf?
 
It all looks so weathered now in a way that has grown familiar;
the landscape possesses the face that it has earned.
 
Not searching for monuments, though open to any eventuality,
I remember us, suddenly, as pleased and shy as deer in fields of spring,
 
not as tail-less, lumbering animals, growling and sniffing
for the bones we had buried and lost.
 
Ferns sprout large and primordial where none had grown
in the shaded region above the tides.
 
The sea has crept in closer; it has taken on an ancient aspect.
 
Through broken teeth I whisper a few broken words
and listen for those long-ago incantations.
 
Our footprints left a faint impression of our lives,
but the wind has carried the songs away to the sea.

 
* First published in Blueline: June 2011, Volume 32
Collected in Wanderings at Deadline (Aldrich Press, 2012)

Ninendaan gaawiin waa-babaamendanzimowaad
I think they will not mind that
 
wiikaa bi-dagoshinaan.
I arrive late.
 
Gijiigijigaaneshiiyag gii-giimoodaanagidoowag noopiming
The chickadees were mumbling in the bushes
 
besho naadazina’iganing.
by the box where I get mail.
 
Andawendaanaawaa Manaadendamaazowin
They needed an Honor Song
 
mii wenji-nagamotawagwaa
so I sang to them
 
nisidawenmangwaa miinawaa
because we understand them again
 
ezhi-manaadenimangwaa ingiw wiidokawiyangidwaa
the way we respect those who keep us company
 
gabe biboon
all winter.
 
Gaawiin da-giizhokoniyesiiwag misawa
They do not need to dress warm and yet
 
giizhokawiyangidwaa gidode’iminaaning.
they warm our hearts.

I am Soulofhawk come to sing my song – may your ears and heart be opened.

I stumble in this foreign tongue and try to make the talk
I speak of when this land was young, and of my brother hawk
My spirit voice is hard to hear, I have so long been gone
But I will whisper in your ear, and having spoke, move on

This finger pushed into the sea of sand and swamp and pine
Has been a welcome home to me – I sing this land of mine . .. . 
Of night song sung in joyous trill by every kind of fowl . . . 
Of chickadee and whippoorwill . . . of warning from the owl . . . 

Of plenty fish and wild oats . . . of berries blue and red
That danced their way down happy throats to bellies always fed . . .
Of rivers coursing through green world of gleaming golden lake . . .
Of alligator, hog and squirrel . . . of moccasin the snake . . .
​
The screaming panther ruled the pine, the eagle ruled the sky –
Oh, will you hear these words of mine? Will you even try?
I have no words on talking leaves for you to read, my friend
For all this simple man believed was written on the wind.

​While we bow our heads to the ground
and our hearts seek meaning among the stars,
wild creatures assert their presence
in the here and now
and the just here and gone.
 
Unknowable in the way one speaks
of the alien and other-worldly,
the title to their kingdom is forged
in their absolute
manifestation of the flesh.
 
If this seems ironic and abstract,
then so be it.
 
For irony and abstraction
are our great gifts--
not to the world, but to ourselves--
invented for our survival.
 
And we, of course, are the real aliens;
Each a world unto one’s own,
orbiting a sun of its own devising.

 
* First published in Sixfold, July 1, 2013, Summer 2013
Collected in Jeremiad Johnson (In Case of Emergency Press, 2019)

Listen!
          Do you hear her – Our Great Mother?
                      In this moment, in time - a reprieve -
                      when all human activity
                      has slowed to bare bones minimum,
                      She inhales an expanse of cleaner air.
                      Exhales a wasteland of toxins.
 
          Do you hear her – Our Great Mother?
                      She weeps for us, her children – All
                      Residents, two-legged and four,
                      winged, finned and serpentine. We
                      share the same earth, sea and air.
                      We, the two-legged ones, hold
                      the choices in concert with Our Mother.
                      Even as forces seem out of control, and
                      the playing field remains unequal.
 
          Do you feel her – Our Great Mother?
                      She shudders as the sludge venoms
                      from Frack wells, the vast desolation
                      from wildfires, and endless wars’ ravages
                      do a rival dance with the C-virus.
 
          I wonder about this massive
                      Blue Marble in our universe. The
                      one we call home. Our Mother. 
                      There’s nowhere else to go.  We cannot
                      just walk off or fly away.
 
          I wonder, if I were an astronaut, or
                      could hitch a satellite ride, how - in this
                      Pandemic blink of time –would
                      Our Mother, our home - look?
                      Would her greens be greener, her blues
                      be bluer,  her storms less turbulent,
                      her mass free from veils of smog?
 
          Like a cataclysm, would I see
                      a rotating orb, vibrating
                      glimmers of brighter, kinder energy?
                      Perhaps violet or white? Would
                      I know – would we all know- we’ve
                      begun to exercise our choices for love?
 

Control and fear became our story
Addiction lies between the lines
And love was lost to pride and glory
This ego virus made us blind
 
Your mother's dying by your hands
But you won't listen
Her blood is all over your hands
Will you listen
 
The soul was lost beyond the shadows
The fog will choke us into dust
Collective conscience chose the gallows
The time of man will turn the dust
 
Your mother's dying by your hands
You won't listen
Her blood is all over your hands
Will you listen 

​I hear it in the river.
I see it in the buds of the maple.
I hear it in the sounds of the red wing black bird.
 
Inquisitive cat so happy to be playing outside
Warm breeze on the back of my neck
 
I see it in the new bright yellow feathers of the gold finch.
I hear it in a distant barking dog.
 
Ever grateful to be walking this Earth mother experiencing my spring soul

​Once the land was green
And the buffalo could roam
The rivers clear and clean
Washed by our simple homes
And all turned in the wheel
And the sacred song was sung
To teach us what was real
And the earth stayed young
Once a man would take
No more than he could use
Set bones back in the lake
When a meal of fish was through
And all turned in the wheel
And the sacred song was sung
To teach us what was real
And the earth stayed young
     
Once the earth was young
And men saw with their hearts
That everything was one
And man was but a part
And all turned in the wheel
And the sacred song was sung
To teach us what was real
And the earth stayed young
Now the earth is old
The buffalo are gone
The rivers have been sold
And man stands all alone
Let all turn in the wheel
And sing the sacred song
To teach us what is real
So the earth stays young

​You can't eat the money
That you've all been praying on
That God has only destroyed you
And you can't drink the oil 
You've been pulling out of the ground
Your momma's shaken and torn . . . fool
 
Do you know what you are
And what you're here for
When it all comes crashing down
What have we learned
 
Distractions have kept you
From what's really going on
Keeping you away from your mother
Her life source you could tap into
Can heal that broken bond
Yes, you can get there inside you
 
Do you know what you are
And what you're here for
When it comes crashing all down
What have we learned

​There is a sudden authority to nightfall
in the flight of a heron, and to the surrounding
darkness where countless feed.
 
But so much that is unattainable, so much
that lies beyond the sovereign dark, rises up
out of the pale blue season of twilight
 
like fireflies summoning among the trees
as the moon loses her translucent and ghostly pallor
in the evening’s first clear and troubling dreams.
 
***
 
Toward daylight, the deer rise up
from among the flattened grasses
and low-lying hummocks,
 
emerging in the cool of morning
from indiscernible swales
and cedar swamps,
 
wary and shy, but alive with owning
at least a part of this
pale blue season of wildflowers.

As I mentioned a couple of weeks ago, social distancing has forced many authors to cancel or postpone readings and book signings they’d scheduled for spring. A dozen of my fellow authors and I got our first taste of this when the West Michigan Women’s Expo, at which we were all selling books (or trying to), was shut down only three hours into what was supposed to be a three-day event.
 
That’s when I came up with the idea to host a couple of virtual Author Expos on HeartWood. I posted the first one two weeks ago. The second installment opens today.
 
Here, you can visit the virtual tables of seven authors and check out their varied offerings. If you find a book you love—and how can you not, with this many authors and books?—please consider using some of your unexpected free time to write and post a review on Goodreads, Amazon, or both. The author will thank you and so will readers who learn about the book from your review.

​http://normalewisbooks.com/
 
Forget San Francisco, Norma left pieces of her heart in Alaska. No cruises or packaged tours for her, she prefers experiencing the state independently via ferry, mail plane, rental car, train, motor-home, bush plane, and an occasional bus. In 2014 she was Jason Mackey’s IditaRider. Many of her Alaska adventures have ended up as magazine articles, though now she is focusing on books.
 
To be fair, she loves Michigan too, as her books on Michigan history attest. In Norma’s view, history isn’t dates and wars and documents, it’s people and how they reacted to the events that unfolded around them. In researching her books, she’s drawn not to dry facts, but to the quirky.
 
Norma’s nonfiction titles include Wild Women of Michigan: A History of Spunk and Tenacity; Lost Restaurants of Grand Rapids; Legendary Locals of Grand Rapids; Grand Rapids: Furniture City; 100 Things to Do in Grand Rapids Before You Die; Muskegon; Grand River; Dutch Heritage in Kent and Ottawa Counties; Wyoming; and Connecting the Coasts: The Race to Build the Transcontinental Railroad, and Show Me The World Eskimo-Indian Olympics: Casey Ferguson.
 
In addition, she is the author of Kasey’s River Song: Spinning Dreams in Gold Rush Alaska; and Dear Santa, I Know It Looks Bad but It Wasn’t My Fault.
 

​https://contentqueens.net/
 
Author, adventure traveler, volleyballer, biker, hiker, and yogi—Laura is not one to sit still. She’s always on the go, looking for the next big idea. Co-owner of a marketing communications company, FineLine Creative, she advocates life-work-play balance and encourages others to immerse themselves in different places and cultures, as she has through her travel adventures.
 
In her spare time, Laura writes a monthly travel blog. Her recently-released book Travel Light is a memoir that explores the lighter side of travel with doses of humor, adventure, and personal transformation. Through her stories, she takes readers along on journeys to Italy, Ireland, Spain, France, Alaska, Arizona and her home state of Michigan.

https://www.sherryaburton.com/
 
Born and raised in Kentucky, Sherry and her Navy husband lived in nine states before settling in Michigan. She got her start in writing by pledging to write a happy ending for a friend who was going through tough times. The story surprised Sherry by taking over and practically writing itself, and launched her into a new life as an author.
 
Her historical fiction series, The Orphan Train Saga, follows the stories of children who were transported from Eastern cities to foster homes in the Midwest between 1855 and 1929. While the children in the stories are fictitious, each child’s story is told with the use of history from the era to add flavor and excitement to the tale.
 
Her other novels include Tears of Betrayal, Love in the Bluegrass, The King of My Heart, Surviving the Storm, Somewhere in My Dreams, Seems Like Yesterday, and Always Faithful.
 
Sherry also writes children’s books under the name Sherry A. Jones.

​http://tueborbooks.com/book/tuebor/
 
A former Michigan State Police officer, Robert was launched into police work as as the first full-time patrolman with the Bridgeport Township, Michigan police department, initially without the benefit of formal police academy training. After surviving those eighteen months of on-the-job training, he began his career with the Michigan State Police, where he was first assigned as a trooper near Detroit, conducting countless criminal investigations. From there he went on to a variety of assignments over his 25-year career, furthering his education with an associate’s degree in criminal justice, a bachelor’s degree in criminal justice from Madonna University, a Juris Doctorate degree from the Detroit College of Law (now MSU School of Law) and a Ph.D. in Public Affairs and Administration from Western Michigan University. He currently practices civil law and is working on a new book about his experiences as an attorney.
 
His first book, Tuebor – I Will Defend: An anatomy of a Michigan State Police Trooper, is the story of an honest, hard-working yet naïve young man who chose to leave the safety of civilian life for a career of a dedicated police officer. The book depicts the daily lives of officers and captures the human side of police work.

​https://www.quittandquinn.com/wendy-sura-thomson
 
Wendy’s memoir, Summon the Tiger, is a story of surviving and thriving in the face of extraordinary obstacles. Born with congenital skeletal abnormalities, she had a leg amputated as a toddler. Her father suffered from World War II induced PTSD, and her mother was emotionally unstable. Wendy coped by escaping to a world of books and music. But when her father sold everything to buy a freighter and travel around the world, Wendy signed on as navigator. She jumped ship in Miami and headed out on her own, as what was left of her family disintegrated. As she pursued her studies and met a coterie of colorful characters, she was forced to evaluate what was most important to her.
 
Wendy’s other books include The Third Order and a children’s book, Ted and Ned. In addition, she contributed to Postcards from the Future: A Triptych on Humanity’s End.
 
Besides writing, Wendy’s pleasures include sipping coffee outdoors first thing in the morning, rain or shine; listening to the waterfall and the birds; and watching—often with amusement—her two beloved Irish Setters explore.

https://principiamedia.com/authors/kimberly-mocini/
 
Kimberly grew up in Rockford, Michigan and went on to earn a degree in business administration from Aquinas College and to study art at Kendall School of Design. Early in her career, when the microwave oven was first introduced, Kimberly traveled throughout Michigan teaching hundreds the “how to” of microwave cooking. That led to her first foray into publishing, a cookbook called For Better Meals The Microwave Way.
 
Her more recent book, My Child Wasn’t Born Perfect, is a personal and inspiring story of the challenges she and her family faced while raising a child who had a learning disability that was classified under the autism umbrella.

http://www.nanpokerwinski.com/
 
Nan (that’s me!) is a former science writer for the Detroit Free Press and the University of Michigan, whose award-winning work (under the byline Nancy Ross-Flanigan) has appeared in numerous magazines, newspapers, and online publications. Her blog, Heartwood (http://www.nanpokerwinski.com/blog), focuses on creativity, connection, and contentment.
 
Her memoir Mango Rash: Coming of Age in the Land of Frangipani and Fanta, which won first place in the memoir/nonfiction category of the Pacific Northwest Writers Association literary awards, chronicles her search for adventure—and identity—in two alien realms: the tricky terrain of adolescence and the remote U.S. territory of American Samoa. Against a backdrop of lava-rimmed beaches, frangipani-laced air, and sensual music, she immerses herself in 1960s island culture with a colorful cast of Samoan and American expat kids. The lessons she learns in the process prove invaluable when she’s faced with crises as trivial as a mean girl’s put-down and as staggering as a fire, a hurricane, a drowning, and her own health crisis.
 
When she’s not writing, Nan takes photographs, makes collages, and wanders the woods around the West Michigan home she shares with her husband Ray Pokerwinski. 

​First of all, it was Friday the 13th. Second of all, there were warnings all around to practice social distancing in light of the coronavirus pandemic. Stay home. Avoid crowds. Cancel big events.

​​So it was something of a surprise to get word that the West Michigan Women’s Expo, where I was scheduled to sell and sign books last Friday, was still a go. Granted, a few authors who’d reserved space at the event decided against coming, but a dozen or so of us intrepid—or foolhardy—souls showed up at DeVos Place with our books.

​The Expo opened at 10:00, and while the crowds weren’t overwhelming, a steady stream of expo-goers ambled through. Book sales were not exactly brisk for the first few hours, but we were all hopeful things would pick up after lunch.

​Then, around 1:00, the rumors began circulating. The Expo was being shut down, and we’d soon be sent packing. This rumor came in various forms, the most colorful version being that “twenty men in suits” had converged on the conference center and ordered the event closed. A later, more credible report had it that Governor Whitmer herself had issued the directive. (There’s a trenchant comment in there somewhere about one woman doing the work of twenty men (in suits!), but I’ll bypass that for now.)

​Given the shutdown and the fact that many authors (including me) may now face cancellation or postponement of other events we’ve worked so hard to arrange, I’ve decided to turn the next two installments of HeartWood into virtual Author Expos.

​Instead of strolling through, you can scroll through and visit the virtual tables of the authors you might have met in person at the cancelled event. With this many authors and books, I’ll bet you can find plenty of reading material to keep you occupied during this period of voluntary isolation.

​And if you find a book you love, please consider using some of your unexpected free time to write and post a review on Goodreads, Amazon, or both. The author will thank you and so will readers who learn about the book from your review.

https://jeanddavis.blogspot.com/
Jean writes speculative fiction. Her novels include Trust, Destiny Pills & Space Wizards, The Last God, A Broken Race and Sahmara.  Her short stories have appeared in The 3288 Review, Bards and Sages Quarterly, Theian Journal, Acidic Fiction's Corrosive Chronicles anthology, The First Line, Tales of the Talisman, Brewed Awakenings II anthology, and more.
 
When not ruining fictional lives from the comfort of her writing chair, she can be found devouring books and sushi, enjoying the offerings of local breweries, weeding her flower garden, or picking up hundreds of sticks while attempting to avoid the abundant snake population who also shares her yard.

​http://booksleavingfootprints.com/
A lifelong outdoorsperson, Joan rode a bicycle from the Pacific to the Atlantic Ocean in 1986 and in 2010 became the first woman to complete the North Country National Scenic Trail on foot. Her mileage totaled 4,395 miles.
 
In addition to North Country Cache and North Country Quest, both about her experiences on the North Country Trail, Joan has written six cozy mysteries in the Anastasia Raven series and four Dubois Files children’s mysteries. Two essay collections, Get Off the Couch with Joan and Fall Off the Couch Laughing contain work originally published as newspaper columns.

​https://www.janetvormittag.com/home.html
Author, publisher, and animal advocate, Janet is the founder and publisher of Cats and Dogs, a Magazine Devoted to Companion Animals, a free publication distributed in West Michigan that promotes pet adoption and spay/neuter.
 
Janet holds a bachelor’s degree in journalism from Grand Valley State University and was a correspondent for The Grand Rapids Press for ten years. Her articles have also been published in Cat Fancy, The Muskegon Chronicle, and the North Ottawa Weekly. Her true story of taming a feral cat, “Wild Cat I Think You Love Me,” was published in The Ultimate Cat Lover (HCI, 2008).
 
Janet’s books include You Might be a Crazy Cat Lady if . . . , Dog 281 (Save Five Series Book 1), More Than a Number (Save Five Series Book 2), and the just-published The Save Five Club (Save Five Series Book 3).

https://emmapalova.com/
Born in former Czechoslovakia, Emma is a journalist, author, short story writer, and screenwriter based in Lowell, Michigan.
 
“Small towns in Midwest America continue to inspire my work,” she says. “I find strength in my characters modeled after resilient people in the face of adversity. I love the Lake Michigan shoreline, its beaches and forests.”
 
Emma’s books include Shifting Sands: Short Stories, Secrets (Shifting Sands Book 2), and Greenwich Meridian Memoir, an epic tale of immigration and love spanning three continents and two generations.

https://www.emedspec.com/
Ellen is the creator of Think Spell Write, a reading program for students who struggle to read and write fluently despite having had reading instruction. These might be special education students, students whose education has been disrupted by trauma or interrupted due to frequent moves, or students who have not yet learned phonetic rules well enough to effectively apply them to read.
 
A 32-year veteran teacher, Ellen taught various subjects at different grade levels, always with dedication to struggling students and a passion for teaching reading.
 
“I love teaching reading!” she says. “I especially love teaching reading to students who feel they will never learn to read. I love that ‘aha’ moment when reading clicks for a student. I love when students are speechless or red-faced, or their face lights up as they realize ‘I can read this!’ ”

https://brendahassebooks.com/
Brenda is a multi-award-winning author of pre-teen, young adult, and adult novels. She has published several picture books for children as well.
 
Among her titles: The Freelancer, On The Third Day: An afterlife journey, From Beyond the Grave: An afterlife  journey – Part 2, A Lady’s Destiny, The Moment Of Trust, and Wilkinshire
 
Brenda volunteers her time writing plays for the Fenton Village Players to perform during the Ghost Walk and Historical Cemetery Walk. She also freelances for magazines from the Fenton, Michigan, home she shares with her husband and cats.

In my last HeartWood blog post, I ruminated on work spaces and what to call them, and I took you on a tour of mine, henceforth to be known as my studio. I was happy that several readers took me up on my invitation to share photos and thoughts about their own work spaces. Here's what they shared:

Oddly, although I have a large office at work and a comfy office at home, most of my writing and meetings these days are at coffee houses! Go figure.

Editor's note: A few years ago, Mark wrote this post for his blog "The Hive" about working  in coffee shops: Coffee Culture. 

​In Florida, our Florida room does it all.

​​At home in Michigan we do have a dedicated room for an office. Yes, office. That's where the files and bookshelves are and of course the desk. The room has dark paneling, the piano and a few framed photos of travels. Not a very bright, inspiring place to write. Maybe that's why I write everywhere in the house--recliner, kitchen counter, dining room table, deck. Yes, much brighter and more space for my laptop and cup of tea.

Do these glimpses of other people's work areas give you ideas for ways to use your own? Are you inspired to carve out a completely different niche for your creative endeavors?

​A few weeks ago, Writer’s Digest put out an intriguing invitation to readers: Submit a photo (or two, or three) of your workspace, along with comments on how you use it, why it’s set up the way it is, or anything else you'd like to say about it. The editors will pick a few to publish in the magazine.
 
I had every intention of submitting mine, but before I managed to assemble the pictures and send off the entry, the deadline had passed. Still, the challenge got me thinking about my own work space, not only how I use it, but also what I call it.

​When I worked from home for my regular job or on freelance assignments, I called my workspace—in our previous home as well as our current one—my “office.” But something about that term grates on me now. It conjures images of deadlines, dingy cubicles, and that sense of being chained to a desk, unable to escape and have fun.

​Nowadays, although I still spend a lot of time in the room where my desk resides, I’m not always working in the strict sense of the word. Sometimes I’m practicing yoga. Sometimes I’m brainstorming ideas for writing projects, or organizing and editing photos, or sorting and cutting out pieces for collages, or creating music playlists, or communicating with friends, or yes, writing. It’s as much a playroom as a workspace.

​​So what to call it?
 
“Workshop” sounds crafty—a good place to build things. But still a little “worky.”
 
“Study” is what spaces like mine used to be called before the home-office kick. Filled with books, as my room is, studies were places for contemplation and rumination. I certainly do contemplate and ruminate. Yet “study” sounds so studious. Not playful.

I’m partial to “studio.” With its artsy connotations, it leaves open possibilities for all sorts of creative activities. Why, I could even dance in a studio (and sometimes I do!). So for now I’m sticking with studio. And just for fun, I’ll take you on a tour.

​Then, I invite you to send me photos of your own creative space and tell me what you call it and how you use it.

Where will your workspace--or playspace--take you?

​Happy New Year!

Is today just like any other day for you, or do you see the beginning of a new year as a time to reflect and set intentions?

As I wrote here a year ago, I no longer make formal resolutions or long lists of goals and aspirations for the coming year. Still, the idea of a fresh start is so appealing I can't resist trying to do a few things differently.

Or maybe just one thing. This time last year, I vowed to break the habit of starting my day by checking my inbox and scanning headlines. Too often, that practice left me agitated and unfocused--exactly not the way I want to be when I sit down to write or tackle other tasks that require concentration.

It was a worthy goal, one I tried all year to accomplish. But the busy-ness of book publishing and promotion and the enticement of never-a-dull-moment national news was too seductive. I just couldn't keep myself from going online before breakfast.

Until a few weeks ago, when I finally found the mettle to break the habit. What flipped the switch for me was a piece by Colleen Story on her Writing and Wellness website that caught my attention with the subhead, "Why Writers Should Avoid the Internet First Thing in the Morning." 

In the article, Colleen cites research suggesting that hopping around on the internet interferes with the ability to focus even after getting offline. She goes on to list five first-thing-in-the-morning activities that are more conducive to all-day productivity. I won't repeat the list here--you can read the full article for that.

​But I will tell you about the change I've made. For the past three weeks this has been my morning routine: yoga, reading poetry, writing down dreams or other thoughts (but not to-do lists), then working on my novel-in-progress. Email and other online business come only after all of that.

I was astonished at how quickly changing that one habit made a difference in my mindset. As I wrote in my journal after just a few mornings of the new routine, "Ideas flow, I feel calmer, less focused on my to-do list; I think instead about what I'm reading and writing. This is good."

In short, simply by changing one habit I feel recharged and ready to put my creativity to work in whole new ways in a whole new year.

​Do you have a habit you'd like to change? Need a little help making it happen?

Here are some suggestions I've gleaned over the years:

• Be clear about why you want to make the change. What desirable thing will it allow you to do or feel?
• Make a plan. List no more than five small steps that will move you toward your goal. If you're giving up a habit, decide what you'll substitute in its place. Think about when, where, and how you'll do the new thing. Picture yourself carrying out your plan.
• Anticipate obstacles that may interfere with making the change. Think ahead about how to deal with them
• Share your intention with someone who supports you, even if that's only yourself in your journal.
• Celebrate every small success. They'll add up to bigger ones. 

May 2020 be a year of creativity, connection, and contentment for us all!

In keeping with my December tradition, I've compiled a year-end list of memorable books I've read over the past twelve months. I don't rank my selections, concurring on that point with author Neil Gaiman, who believes picking five favorite books is like "picking the five body parts you'd most like not to lose."

The books listed here weren't all published in the past year. One has a publication date of 2009; the others were all published in the past six years. 

I never set out to read books that conform to particular themes, but when I look back at what I've read, I do notice common threads. A number of these books are testaments to perseverance and the ability to overcome adversity, from physical injury to neglect to dysfunction and abuse. Sounds like heavy stuff, I know, but I found all of these books inspiring in one way or another.

​Whatever you want to call it, here it is:

Georgia Under Water: Stories by Heather Sellers
Anytime I see Heather Sellers's byline on an essay or short story in The Sun magazine or elsewhere, I put that piece of writing at the top of my to-read pile. Her honesty and clarity in writing about her unconventional upbringing and life challenges make for riveting stories. The short stories in this collection are fiction, but the protagonist seems to have a lot in common with real-life Heather in her youth. The stories are strange and edgy, yet utterly believable. Especially masterful: Sellers's depiction of the physicality of puberty -- a young girl's startling growth spurts and awkward grace. 

King of Doubt by Peter Gibb
HeartWood readers may remember Peter from his guest post on mindful conversation. King of Doubt will introduce you to younger versions of Peter on his journey from self-doubt to wonder and joy. There are laugh-out-loud moments (young boys discussing how babies are made) and flat-out gorgeous and evocative passages (one in particular in a section about a Ferris wheel). Though Peter's story ventures into darkness, it emerges into hope, and it left me feeling uplifted.

Everyday Book Marketing: Promotion ideas to fit your regularly scheduled life by Midge Raymond
This one's pure practicality. I include it for any other authors or aspiring authors looking for guidance on book promotion. As I mentioned in a previous blog post, the transition from writer to author to book promoter is not a natural one for most of us. This book offers tips on what to do before publication, as well as during and after book launch. Best of all, the emphasis is on keeping the seemingly endless tasks manageable. In addition to Raymond's advice, the book includes Q&As with authors and other experts -- event coordinators, a publicist, a librarian -- who offer additional helpful suggestions.

Reckless Steps Toward Sanity A Memoir by Judith Sara Gelt
Full disclosure: Judith is a friend. We met at a writers' conference in 2013, discovered we were at about the same point in writing our memoirs, and kept in touch during the process of drafting, revising, and publishing our books. However, I'm not including her book here simply because she's a friend. It truly is a standout in my mind. As I wrote in my Goodreads review: "With a mother incapacitated by bipolar disorder; a remote, controlling, inappropriately-behaving father; and inaccessible older siblings, Judith Sara Gelt must find her own way in the world. It’s no wonder she takes wrong turns and winds up in some dark and dangerous places. In this honest, unflinching memoir, Gelt takes readers right into those places to witness at close range the choices she comes to regret — and to understand why there are some she never will. Though often disturbing, this girl-to-woman’s story is, in the end, inspiring. Readers will find hope in Gelt’s ability to emerge from her painful past whole and capable of great tenderness."

Her Fearful Symmetry by Audrey Niffenegger
If you'd asked me a couple of years ago if I'd like to read a book about a cemetery populated by ghosts, I'd have said, "Ummm, not really." Yet I'm here to tell you I have read -- and enjoyed -- not one, but two such books. The first was George Saunders's Lincoln in the Bardo, which I included on my 2018 year-end book list. This year, it's Niffenegger's compelling tale set in London's Highgate Cemetery. Though reviews from other readers and critics are mixed -- some feeling this work falls short of Niffenegger's The Time Traveler's Wife -- I found it imaginative, quirky, and artful.

Detroit Hustle: A Memoir of Life, Love, and Home by Amy Haimerl
I'll read just about any book about Detroit, yet not all end up on my most-memorable list. This one was an un-put-downable delight. Transplanted Brooklynites Haimerl and her husband sink their savings -- and a lot more -- into an abandoned 1914 Georgian Revival house. Detroit Hustle is the story of a house that becomes a home (though not easily or cheaply), a city in transition, and most of all, a sense of place and belonging.

Prognosis: A Memoir of My Brain by Sarah Vallance
Thrown from a horse, Vallance, a PhD with a high-level career, suffers a traumatic brain injury that causes her IQ to plummet and her personality to change. At first, she accepts the dire prognosis she's given, believing there's no hope of recovery. Fortunately, she eventually rejects that view and begins rehabilitating herself. Her memoir is a remarkable story of perseverance. 

Educated: A Memoir by Tara Westover
A New York Times bestseller, one of President Obama's favorite books of 2018, praised by Bill Gates and just about every reviewer in the universe, this book hardly needs my endorsement. But here it is anyway. Raised in a survivalist, fanatically religous family that mistrusts formal education, yet provides little in the way of home schooling, Westover somehow manages to extricate herself and make up for the astonishing gaps in her knowledge of life and the world we live in. This story bears witness to the power of learning.

Clock Dance by Anne Tyler
You didn't think I could leave Anne Tyler out of a memorable-books roundup, did you? Her latest novel, published last year, is delightfully quirky in that inimitable Anne Tyler way. With a cast of offbeat, yet convincing characters and a compelling tale of self discovery that spans fifty years, this is a dance I just couldn't sit out.

Heartland: A Memoir of Working Hard and Being Broke in the Richest Country on Earth by Sarah Smarsh
The title neatly sums up Smarsh's story, but there's so much more to this widely-acclaimed best-seller. It's at once a deeply personal story and a sociological treatise on the plight of America's rural poor and the complex mix of factors that keep them stuck in cycles of poverty. I'm descended from hard-working, rural folks like Smarsh's family, yet her book opened my eyes to aspects of their lives I had never fully appreciated.

Now it's your turn. Tell me about the books you read this year.

​Around the middle of last week, I looked at the calendar and had a startling realization. Today would be my regular blog-posting day, and not only did I not have a post written, I could not see enough uncommitted time in the intervening days to get one written.

​We were about to leave town for a book signing in Detroit, followed by a Michigan Nature Association dinner in East Lansing the next day, followed by a family birthday party in Northville the day after that. Then back home to Newaygo, where yoga class, a book club appearance, a medical appointment, and the library book sale setup all crowded into the next few days.

​There just wasn’t time to write and set up a post.

​Still, I didn’t want to break my commitment to post on HeartWood every first and third Wednesday. So I started scrambling and scheming. I could dig out a post I’d started a year or so ago but had set aside and never finished. Yeah, that’s what I would do.

​I found the post and the notes and images I needed to finish it, loaded everything onto a flash drive, and figured I’d do the work on our laptop in the downtime between the weekend events.

​Great plan. Until . . . the night of the first event when—thanks to adrenaline, an unfamiliar bed, and leg cramps from the super-stylish but brutal shoes I’d worn that evening—I got almost no sleep and woke up the next morning in a fog so deep there was no way I could write anything coherent. Now that I had the time, I didn’t have the brain power.

​I needed to rest. I knew that. But my first impulse was to start scrambling and scheming again. I could power nap and then, if I was really efficient, still get the blog post done.

​Just one problem: Tired as I was, I could not fall asleep for a nap. That’s when I remembered a recent conversation with a friend who’s trying to break the habit of cramming too much into her schedule. She told me she’s cutting back on commitments and learning to rest. 

​That’s when I knew that was what I needed to do, too. Just rest.

​​Just then, another memory came to me: a blog post I’d written last year, when I was in a similar period of overload and had the radical idea of taking a time out.

“​​As soon as I had that thought, the space around me opened up,” I wrote. “My breathing slowed. I felt like I could float on air.
​
“Such a simple solution, just stepping back and saying, ‘Whoa, there.’ Yet it's crazily easy to forget that it's an option—that when things get too hectic, maybe they don't need to be. Maybe there are things that don't have to be done, or that don't have to be done quite the way you thought they did.”

​I re-read those words and thought, “Who was the wise person who wrote this? Why am I not following her advice?”

Well, now I am. I’ve given myself permission to a take time out instead of scrambling. That other post I was going to power through and finish for today? It’ll still get done, but in a week when I can give it the time and attention it deserves.
​
Meanwhile, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to shut off the computer and give it and my brain and body a rest. 

​You know how it is when the day you’ve dreamed of for a long, long time finally arrives? Sometimes it’s every bit as magical as you imagined it would be. Other times, compared to that glorious fantasy, it’s a dud.

​I recently experienced the dream-come-true of celebrating publication of my book, Mango Rash: Coming of Age in the Land of Frangipani and Fanta, with friends and loved ones. Fortunately, the reality was anything but a dud.

​It was pure magic.

​​Looking back on the occasion, I realize it was more than a book launch. It was equal parts reunion, time capsule, and celebration of friendship.

​It was, of course, also a fabulous book party. Newaygo County Council for the Arts/Artsplace generously hosted the October 25 event, three days after the official publication date, and Artsplace knows how to throw a party. Everything was set up beautifully (who knew stacks of books could be so artful?), and the mood was festive. 

​​Many guests dressed in tropical attire, adding to the merriment, and my publisher Behler Publications even provided an enormous, lavishly-decorated cake.

​As for the reunion part, three friends from Samoa days—Valerie, Barry, and Beverly, all of whom are in the book—traveled from afar for Mangorama weekend. Though I had spent time with all three of them in recent years, Val and Bev hadn’t seen each other since Samoa days, more than 50 years ago, and it had been almost that long since Val and Barry last crossed paths. 

​As we continued the celebration over the weekend, we reminisced and laughed over pictures (did we really ever look like that?) and reinforced bonds that formed in that remarkable time and place: Samoa in the Sixties.

​Other friends from my Detroit and Ann Arbor days also made the scene. That’s where the time capsule comes in. My whole writing life flashed before me, remembering time spent with these friends back in our Detroit Free Press, University of Michigan News Service, and Ann Arbor writers’ group days.

​Those flashbacks continued into the following week when I had a second book signing at Artworks in Big Rapids. For several years, I belonged to a writers’ group at Artworks, and during that time I revised the manuscript that became Mango Rash. It was such fun to see friends from the Artworks writer’s group at the reading and for all of us to reflect on the long journey from manuscript to book.

​​Still more memories came flooding back at the Croton Township Library book signing a few days later, where I connected with another writing friend. Kendra Lachniet and I were in the Fremont Area District Library’s writers’ group together, and Kendra has been supportive of my work all along.

​So have all my friends, writers and non-writers alike. Celebrating with them over the past couple of weeks has reminded me over and over how blessed I am to have a circle of such kind, caring, generous, and FUN pals. 

​Whether or not I published a book, whether or not I ever publish another, I couldn’t ask for more.

​What with summer activities and chores and the myriad details associated with the launch of my memoir Mango Rash, I confess I haven’t been doing much new writing lately. I was inspired to make an exception, though, when I received a compelling request earlier in the summer from one of my favorite Michigan authors, Anne-Marie Oomen.

​She was appealing to writers in her circle to join in an undertaking she called the Lake-love Letters Project. The idea was simple: write a love letter—no more than 400 words—to the Great Lakes or a specific lake. Not a huge investment of time and energy, but an important one, as Anne-Marie’s cover letter made clear.

It began:
​ 
I love our waters: lakes, rivers, wetlands, little sinking ponds, remote swamps. If it’s wet, I’ll probably like it.  And of course, I’m worried about all of them, as I know many of you are.  I often wonder what I can do.  I’m not a scientist, politician, lawyer, not even a very good journalist.  I often feel inadequate, a “fish out of water” when it comes to this work. This year, a question I asked myself: how might I use my small gifts a literary artist (creative writer) to do something for our beloved waters.

​She went on to relate that just as she was considering how she might make a difference, she received a letter from Liz Kirkwood, director of the regional water organization For Love of Water (FLOW). The letter explained that in July, the International Joint Commission of the Great Lakes would meet in Traverse City. Liz wanted to enliven what might otherwise be a dry discussion (subject matter notwithstanding) by involving artists who are passionate about our water.

As Anne-Marie described it in her letter,
 
She had a vision: at the final meeting with the commissioners, could we showcase our love of water in a way that would involve the arts, particularly the writers. She spoke of the arts as one heart behind all the science and legal work. I was so grateful for her rare understanding. And she offered an idea that I could run with. Could we writers and artists do something with love letters to our waters. Love letters? Yes! 

​I usually take my time responding to requests that ask me to write, edit, or critique something. I like to consider what else is on my to-do-list and how interested I am in adding to that ever-expanding list. This time I didn’t hesitate. As soon as I found a sliver of writing time, I drafted my love letter. After a few revisions, I sent it off to Anne-Marie.
 
Here’s what I wrote:

Dear Lake Michigan,
 
You’re not like the others—the ones I grew up with. In that flat and dusty land, those pretenders to the title were ­­­­mere puddles. Knowing no better, we suited up, dived in, toweled off, sat on shore with sandwiches, staring out across their dense, red-silted expanses, thinking, “Well, this is nice.”

You, too, carry burdens, I realized in that moment. And also this: I may have loved you since we first met, but I haven’t really known you. Let me know you now.
 
Love,
Nan

​Just before the commission meeting, Anne-Marie reported that nearly 100 letters submitted to the project would be presented in book form to each of the commissioners. In addition, she extracted sentences from some letters and shaped them into a ten-minute script to be read as part of the presentation to the commission. “Your words made a beautiful praise song to the lakes—thank you!” she wrote to contributors.

​So often, writing feels like a solitary, inwardly-directed pursuit. It was gratifying to take part in this project, and it made me think about other ways I might merge my passion for writing with the issues I care about. 

​How can you apply your talents to something you care about?