A Monarch Moon

I live a few miles from a poetry trail. ( First off, how cool is that?)

IMG_2069In Newport State Park, a ½ mile walk winds first through a gorgeous stand of deciduous forest and then meanders through a prairie.. Twelve stanchions invite walkers and hikers to pause for a few minutes along their way to read beautifully crafted words.



Every few months the displays change, so there are periodic calls for poets to write.

The plan was two-part: meet at the park to write poems as we’d watch the full moon rise out of Lake Michigan. Two weeks later we’d return to walk the trail and read our recently installed poems about the moon.

Things didn’t go quite as planned.  Skies were overcast as my eager car-full of poets drove to the park. It began to rain as we pulled up to the beach parking lot where we had planned to watch a full moon rising. So we went inside to the nature center and dug down deep to write about the moon we weren’t watching.

Newport State Park is designated as a Dark Sky Park, so the nature center has telescopes and star charts and astronomical things.   But it’s also a park full of monarch butterflies, and I was drawn to a display where nearly a hundred of them were readying themselves for flight, for migration. This poem is for them.


A Monarch Moon

The moon will rise
whether we see it or not
Carefully plotted charts
assert tonight’s rising will be at 8:01

but there is rain.
Clouds cover the beach.
We go inside to sit on tiled floor
where taxidermed animals ask us
to pretend      to imagine the white globe
lifting itself into beauty

I am struck instead
by the hundred hanging chrysalis
and the scent of metamorphosis.

They need only the moony milkweed
to rise up, to resurrect
to fly


No First Day Back

I believe in education. And even though schools aren’t perfect in this country, the fact that every child can go to school for free is one of the best privileges of our democracy. It is the right thing to do- to gather our children together to teach them history and math and science and geography and reading, to give them knowledge so they can articulate their ideas; skills so they can invent and create.

All around me this week, kids and teachers are returning to their schools.  However, I’m retired from school teaching, so this is now what other people do.  It took a while to adjust, but I am no longer sad that I’m not in that throng of kids and teachers starting back.

August in Door County is too nice to go inside. The flowers blaze with color.


The water is warm and swimmable.

IMG_1683Lake Michigan has been particularly clear this year.


The gardens are full of vegetables; the eating is good. And all around me I see beauty in the small things like the patterns on water


and the color of water


and cranes in a field.


I loved teaching, and it felt good to do something  valuable with my days. But it was hard work, as it called for relentless sacrifice for the kids in my care. So, thank you to all the teachers who will spend their waking moments of this year helping the children in their classrooms.  I’m grateful you do what you do.

Someday, you too, might retire and live in a beautiful place.IMG_1872


All Feast

I attended an author talk this morning and was delighted. Faith Sullivan, author of nine books (which you really should read) charmed us with an excerpt from an upcoming book, and then spent time answering questions about the writing life, about characters that she misses when she finishes telling their story, about the inspiration that a place like Door County can give to artists. I wish everyone I knew had been there.

But here’s a problem: we have an abundance of choices right now of good places to be. Musicians come from all over the country to play concerts in homes, in auditoriums, in city parks. I’ve been to three plays in July, including Shakespeare and a world premiere—all as good as you could find anywhere. The galleries are full of art, and on top of that, the Plein Air art festival is happening right now- so we can watch artists work as they stand on the side of a road to paint a barn, to sketch the harbor…

The water beckons: warm, blue, perfect. Do we go to the beach for a swim? SUP? Kayak? Fish?

summerMy meadow is full of wildflowers.


My raspberries are coming on..


The farm markets offer bounty of every kind. Even the tomatoes are in – the garden ones that make all of the greenhouse ones ashamed to claim the same name.

Fishermen are catching fish. Boats fill the harbors.


The cherries are thick on the trees.

It is a crowd of good things.

 And just like any deluge, it feels a bit overwhelming right now. Part of me feels like screaming into this throng: Wait! Take your turn! Not all at once! Spread out!

Because of course, it will be January before long. The crowds will be gone, and the days will be short and the concerts will be a bit rare. I’ll have to pretend that a greenhouse tomato satisfies.

Every place has its tradeoffs: to live here means to live with these contrasts, with this feast-of-summer-wonder and famine-of-winter sparsity.

Like all other bounties, like all other feasts, how wrong of me to complain. So today, I’ll forget about winter and be grateful.

Thanks be to God for the many gifts of summer.


Cousins. Conversation.

One lovely advantage of a family summer cabin is the nearly guaranteed yearly reunion with favorite people. In my childhood, the extended family settled into a pattern: the cousins from New York came in July, we drove up from Kansas to overlap for a week before staying on in August. A third and fourth set of cousins came less regularly, but there was nothing better than their arrival at the beach and the days of endless play with cousins who are people in a special category:  like friends except better;  like siblings without the familial conflict.

Some relatives we saw more than others, but as they came and went, the constant we could count on was conversation with someone who liked us.

My niece and her family are here this week, she for her 36th time. As we “caught up” on the year’s events, the value of such conversations became clear to me. Socrates said “the unexamined life is not worth living. “ Those once yearly conversations, I see now, are  a great way to examine our lives. Throughout the year we live our lives in separate places, and we might hear about the broad strokes of a relative’s life like surgery or loss of job or backpacking trip. But when we have the luxury of time to chat, it gives us the chance to really evaluate, and then articulate. “Yes I do like my job, but my boss is a challenge. I’m not sure whether I should stay… My daughter is having trouble making friends, and I don’t know what to do about it…We’re having money issues, and we’re in a bit of trouble…. I’ve met somebody really wonderful….


 As my cousins and I grew out of sandcastles or silly games on the beach, we never stopped being glad of the reunions. Over board games and card games we’d recount the ups and downs of our year. We asked each other questions; we’d self reflect and then speak honestly about what was good in our life, what was not.


The grandparents and aunts and uncles welcomed us in; they were interested; they cared. And now we watch our nieces and the younger relatives grow into adulthood, and they watch us age. And each time there is the coming back to people who have seen the ebb and flow of our lives and are eager to hear the year’s news.

My beautiful picture

Twelve years ago one of my favorite cousins died suddenly at age 48. I don’t think of him much throughout the year anymore, but when I am sitting on the beach and the sky is all glory with the milky way, I can find myself stabbed with a terrible pain of missing him- even now, all these years later. I miss the chats about life we had when we were ten, and then eleven, and then fourteen and then twenty. I remember the nights we sat together with our spouses sharing stories of our joys and challenges.  Later, we sat together with our children on our laps, talking as we helped them count the meteors that fell into an August sky.


Everybody should be so blessed to have people ask “how was your year?” and then expect an honest and comprehensive answer. In this summer place we watch each other grow, age, change. At this place of sand and water, trees and sky, the questions we ask and the words we say are perhaps the best gifts of all.


The gorgeous star picture is courtesy of Tory Lynn Photography.  She was a recent guest and took this picture from the beach. Check out her remarkable photography at www.torylynnphoto.com





Thanks, Grandma.

My beautiful picture

My grandmother was a formal woman.   I loved her, and I knew she loved me, but when we visited her each summer in her backwoods cabin on the shores of Lake Michigan, we would have an appointed time to visit her for games of cribbage. Even then, we needed to knock before entering her room. In an act of formality which seems ludicrous now, there were nights when she asked us to “dress for dinner.” This meant my brother and father would pack dinner jackets and ties next to their swimming suits and sandals and vacation clothes. In the evening, I would need to wear a “Sunday dress” even though all day long on the beach we’d be cavorting in two piece swimsuits, traipsing about the cabin with sandy, bare feet, and sitting on folding chairs with dripping suits through lunch.

On the occasional hot sunny day, even Grandma Olive would put on a swimsuit and bob around a bit in the lake before retreating back into the cabin where she would put back on her linen dress and string of silver beads.

When I spend time pondering it, the fact that she gifted her children and grandchildren and great grandchildren with this glorious family cabin on our sand Lake Michigan beach seems improbable and incongruous for the kind of woman I remember.  She  grew up in Minneapolis with moderate wealth, graduated college  in a time not many women could do so (Oberlin, 1913) and married a scientist/professor with some renown.   But for the first few years after they acquired this land (in the Depression, for a song,) they camped on the property. It took two years before there were solid structures with roofs over their heads to sleep in and cook in. There was a hand pump to bring in water and an outhouse several hundred feet from the house. My father helped them install electricity twenty years after the cabin was built, about ten years after he joined the family.

Grandma has been gone over thirty years. I wish I had asked her why she did it- went along with the acquisition of this place that means so much to all of her progeny- when such a thing would have been so outside her comfort zone. But I didn’t ask, so I conjecture three possibilities:

She was an artist. And this place is full of beauty. So maybe the colors of the water that are always changing, and the light in the quaking leaves of the birch on the land, and the moon rising out of the lake to shine a path were compensation enough for her.

Wildflowers. She loved them, and Door County is full of many kinds of them in the spring. She and a group of her like-minded friends came up for a house party every spring and wandered the county looking for them.


She wrote up their lists which are still hanging on the walls in her old bedroom. I imagine it was hard for her to play hostess in such rustic surroundings, but she did it anyway, year after year- far into her eighties. (They called themselves the Wild Women.)


Marriage. She and my grandfather were a pretty great pair. My grandfather had hay fever allergies, and this was a good place to escape them. He loved the woods, and camping, and the natural world. He built himself a little study just off of the cabin and wrote a significant number of his scientific papers there. So maybe she swallowed up her own preferences and figured it was a good thing watching him be happy.


Whatever the reason, I’m sure glad she did it. And just like I wish I had learned all the names of the wildflowers when she tried to teach them to me, I wish I had thanked her more often for giving us this place to love in Door County.

My beautiful picture

This pic is circa 1964. Left to right: my sister Jane, Mom and me, my brother Jon, and Grandma Olive in front of her Door County cabin.

Spring- Finally

Spring took forever to arrive this year. ( As in 30 inches of snow in April, as in the buds are just now on the trees…)

But here’s a poem to celebrate spring:


Kneeling in Thin Places

Just an hour after I called to say
I had seen the first trillium of spring
I saw her outside my window
in genuflection
sun streaming onto her hair
like a medieval-painted Mary kneeling
at holy beauty

In pews
those who bend

I knelt today in my garden
planting seeds
It will be prayer
to eat
the first tomato



Oh, Europe.

We have returned to our small peninsula after being in Europe for just over two weeks. Oh, Europe.

Flowers. They are everywhere. In shop windows and apartment windows, on every table in every café, in planters on every street.

There are flower stands in every market, and in the Netherlands, especially, there are tulips. Glorious fields of tulips.


It’s hard not to love a culture that loves flowers.

The age of things. The streets are old, and the doors are old, and the buildings are old.

Old in this case does not mean dingy or dilapidated; somehow these Europeans make even more classy those structures that have stood already for hundreds of years.

The hotels where we slept and the cafes where we ate and the cathedrals and the castles all told silent stories of the multitudes of people that have breathed within their walls. I walked the same city fortress and climbed the city tower where people who lived in ­­­­­­1386 also walked and climbed.

We ate in a café where people have chatted and eaten since 1572.


In Cologne, we saw a gorgeous mosaic floor that had been installed by the Romans. (Probably 1st century)

In the face of history like that, what is there left to be except humble?

Small Spaces. We Americans love our large spaces. Europeans seem to be content without large homes and large yards and the amassing of material possessions that must inevitably fill up our large houses and large yards. Even among the wealthy, living quarters were small- a flat of 900 square feet was normal. Yards were uncommon.

And the ramifications of that? More leisure time.   Instead of spending time to maintain large homes and yards, they meet friends in cafes, they gather in parks or along river banks.   And they linger for hours. The pace of life seems less hurried.

Water. Their public drinking fountains are better than our public drinking fountains.

The cathedrals. So impressive. I think the next post might be devoted to them.

The kindness of strangers. As much as we loved the river cruise, we also loved the days where we were away from the organized tour and able to explore on our own. The flip side meant we were left to make our own mistakes- like the time we got on the wrong train, or the afternoon when we ended up somewhere different than we intended.

“Come with us,” a couple said, when we asked for a little help. “You will love our little town, and if you walk with us, just this way, we will show you the best cafe… ”

Travel is always about learning, about growing, about seeing things from new perspectives. The contrasts between the places we know and the new ones we experience are intriguing, and for someone like me who has wanderlust, beguiling.

There is more pondering for me to do as I continue to reflect on our time away. But I’ll finish for now with  just a few of my favorite pictures from a place that felt wonderful, that felt good.


Version 3