Ancient music drifting from a record player The tang of ginger, nutmeg, and cloves New family meeting for the first time A homemade star sparkling in the window Cherubs caroling at a school concert Bows on boxes dusted with pine needles Mulled wine steaming in a saucepan Carving castles into three feet of snow Trying in vain to contain the excitement A basketful of cards from faraway friends Five boisterous brothers at the dinner table Strawberries crowning vanilla ice cream Brother and sister playing Stratego Arctic wind blasting cherried cheeks Sweet pain recalling those missing
I like to stick my hands into the dirt, Everybody is somewhat insecure. Science only has a few of the answers. Music can sneak up on my emotions. Some teachers hate teaching. Unconditional love is real. Beer goes with anything. Being really good at something is incredibly satisfying. It doesn’t matter what the popular kids think. I love the smell of pine trees in the forest. Getting an A+ doesn’t mean you learned it all. People who seem happy may be sad. Be careful when taking a hook out of a fish. The principal [sic] of the thing is not always worth liking. It feels wonderful when a girl runs her hand through my hair. Nutmeg is what made my grandmother’s scones smell so good. Many people see the world very differently than I do. Sometimes I hear the voice of God in a song. I’m allergic to poison ivy after all. You can lie with a photograph. The human race is not taking care of planet Earth. Stories are incredibly powerful. Teacher unions are necessary. Most people are basically good. Table saws are dangerous. There’s nothing like an old friend.
I was blessed with a backyard Eden. Cardinals chorus in the tree canopy And robins roost under my screen porch. A red-tailed hawk circles a cerulean sky, A hummingbird zigzags through the zinnias, And blackbirds brawl over sunflower seeds.
An owl asks “Who cooks for you?” by night And scores of sandhill cranes bugle by day. A troop of turkeys tramps through the grass, A wary blue heron keeps watch in the sedge, And a mallard duo dips under the duckweed.
Observing from my perch near a tree-lined pond I have seen or heard three dozen avian varieties, And yet three billion birds have disappeared! It’s hard to grasp that so many songs are silent.
Although a colossal effort kept bald eagles piping, No ivory-billed woodpecker has kented since ‘44. Human activity could mute hundreds more species. Diverse habitats are downgrading to grass lawns, Tantalizingly overlit cities are disrupting migration, And pesticides are poisoning the food chain.
God’s metaphorical eye may be on the sparrow But believers are putting Kirtland’s Warbler at risk. Biblical dominion over the fauna of the planet Means that we are the stewards of a garden Placed in our care a long, long time ago.
Choose a route and a starting point, Then take a long walk at the speed of nature. The days are paved with dirt, stone, concrete. Yellow arrows point to a series of revelations. Constant clamor yields to sustained silence, Birdsong replaces chainsaw and jake brake. Walls of graffiti and screens covered in anxiety Become medieval forests or goat-studded hills.
From everywhere in dozens of languages, Men and women of all ages share plain bunks, Café con leche, remedies, and clotheslines With best friends they’ve never met before. Some seek indulgence, a head start to Heaven. Elders hope their bodies meet the challenge. It’s honoring a vow, atoning, seeking meaning, Or just a lark – a quirky, exhausting vacation.
Some say the goal is the power to serve others, Many leave a token, none finish unchanged, And each brings back a boon, a story to share.
Peace is joy at rest. Joy is peace on its feet. ― Anne Lamott
I deliberately walk a new path outdoors, following blue blazes on sugar maples – a trail of dirt, sand, gravel, mud, ice, or rocks. I move at her pace and the world reveals herself.
An eastern wood pewee cries from the canopy. Sandhill cranes bugle in a flattened cornfield. A red-tailed hawk soars high above the marsh. To the right, rustling leaves become a barred owl.
Trekking poles help navigate mazes of tree roots. A day pack holds water, sunscreen, and first aid. In February, layers of wool keep cold at bay and lined boots crunch fresh footprints in the snow.
There’s a red oak tree that’s too broad to hug and a stand of white spruce shaped like a runway. Bear corn, a bubbly pine cone, hides in plain sight. Clumps of maidenstears accent the fringe of the trail.
A smiling woman jogs with her English Springer. Kayaking fishermen silently skim the river. A future Eagle Scout clears a new trail spur. Two artists capture wildflowers at the woods’ edge.
A wary red fox slinks across a quiet dirt road. Peacocks meow and honk beside the vineyard. Three hen turkeys waddle into a blueberry hedge and an eight-point buck bounds from an old peach grove.
Stunned by divine beauty in a new locale, I saunter through nature, where my soul belongs. A bracing breath of pine-tinged air fills my chest and Peace, on its feet, joins me on the forest trail.
I pause to look for You. My mind is seduced by images, infuriated by text, and hypnotized by movement. Help me to shut out those distractions as I close my eyes. For a few moments, let me become blind to everything but Your Light at my core.
I pause to feel for You. Help me to become still and know. Ease my tense muscles, calm my strained nerves, and dampen my keyed-up emotions. Let my body relax and my heartbeat slow, so that I may sense Your Spirit moving inside of me.
I pause to listen for You. Life is noisy. My ears are weary from the cacophony that constantly assails them. Shut out all other speech and give me the grace to hear. Let the sounds of the world die away and leave only the music of Your Voice.
Blessed is the pilgrim who walks humbly, For she shall be lifted up.
Blessed is the one who tolerates difference, For he shall enjoy the beauty of diversity. Blessed is the one who consoles her companion, For her spirit shall find grace.
Blessed is the pilgrim who shares the struggler’s load, For his burdens shall seem light.
Blessed is the one who is kind to the unpleasant, For she shall be loved. Blessed is the one who leaves nature undisturbed, For he shall please the Creator.
Blessed is the pilgrim who slows down for the laggard, For she shall never be late.
Blessed is the one who sees beyond disappointment, For he shall be fulfilled. Blessed is the one who shares food with a stranger, For she shall not want.
Blessed is the pilgrim who is open to serendipity, For he shall be pleasantly surprised.
Blessed is the one who does not judge others, For she shall know justice. Blessed is the one who takes time to reflect, For he shall come to understand.
Blessed is the pilgrim who respects the sacred space, For she shall hear the voice of God.
At dawn, I try to prepare a light backpack, Removing the weight of anxiety and self-doubt. I make sure to have fresh food for the journey; May it nourish me to wisdom and friendship.
On meeting the dawn’s chill outside, I take out Warm clothing to drive away bitterness and arrogance. There’s a map to help me find the way and A guidebook that alerts me to the beauty of the path.
The contents of my pack sometimes surprise me: Gems I forgot were there, or missing necessities. But at the end of the day, when darkness approaches, I know I can reach into its stillness and feel divine light.
La mochila de mi alma
Al amanecer, intento preparar una mochila ligera, Eliminando el peso de la ansiedad y la duda de mí mismo. Me asuguro de tener comida fresca para el viaje; Que me fomente en mi la sabiduría y la amistad.
Al encontrar ahí fuera el frío del alba, saco Ropa cálida para alejar la amargura y la arrogancia. Hay un mapa para ayudarme a encontrar el camino y Una guía que me hace saber de la belleza del sendero.
El contenido de la mochila a veces me sorprende: Gemas que olvidé que estaban allí, o necesidades perdidas. Pero al fi nal del día, cuando se acerca la oscuridad, Sé que puedo buscar en su quietud y sentir la luz divina.
It’s a beautiful night and we’re looking for something dumb to do.
Give me back my wig, baby, let your head go bald.
Don’t hold back ‘cause there ain’t no use.
Show me how big your brave is.
There’s a joke here somewhere and it’s on me.
I just want to take you away from here.
I don’t even care if anyone sees me dancing. Hay algo que me mueve y no sé decirte muy bien lo que es.*
Voices from the larger towns filled our heads full of dreams.
Standing on your mama’s porch, you told me that I’d last forever.
I’ve got a full stock of thoughts and dreams that scatter. Zitty zah yoom, gumyoo dumday.**
Nobody ever said it was a righteous world.
Every day there’s a new thing coming.
We didn’t start the fire, no, we didn’t light it but we tried to fight it.
All will be well; you can ask me how, but only time will tell.
I think I’ve finally found my hallelujah.
They don’t know what you’ve done for me.
You’ve made such a happy man out of me
I want a new drug – one that makes me feel like I feel when I’m with you.
Bonjour, mon petit bureau de change.***
When you are next to me I come alive.
Why don’t you lie down for a couple years; I’ll look after things.
It’s a new dawn for me and I’m feelin’ good.
————
Chris Clark, November 2018
————
* Something moves me and I can’t quite say what it is. (Julieta Venegas)
** [scat] (Bobby McFerrin)
*** Hello, my little money exchange office. (Flight of the Conchords)
As I step onto the dormant country road, The neighbor’s manicured lawn mocks my to-do list. Graying skies and recently bared elms frame my stroll And I savor cleansing breaths of fresh autumn air.
A few tiny birds and black squirrels are the only fauna. Traces of trees that toppled in a recent wind litter the shoulder. Soybeans have been harvested, exposing the ground. Arrayed in rustling rows, leathery corn stalks wait their turn.
You lie in a Gotham hospital awaiting major surgery, But I imagine you walking beside me talking about pecan pie, Laughing at corny jokes and asking about ancestors. In the distance, over the lake, the sunset is about to blossom.
Diesel fumes chase the bus rumbling along a narrow road while your tepid soda and stale snacks clash with cabin fever. Air brakes jolt sticky passengers and the door swishes open. Hints of pine sap on a brisk lakeside breeze revive the weary.
Friends slap your shoulder while strangers smile, shaking hands. Pealing bells, shuffling feet, and falling chairs are your soundtrack for steaming trays of oatmeal, grilled cheese, and meatloaf. The sweet wax smell of crayons welcomes you to the craft lodge.
Oaky fireplace smoke permeates your hoodie while squirrels chatter. You slide into soft sheets as the wind whistles an old camp song. Over the canoe’s edge, your hand straddles the cold stream current. You taste cherry strudel, fried asparagus, s’mores, and sweet wine.
The scent of lilacs guides you to crashing waves and crying gulls. The beach crunches, scours your toes, then offers silky driftwood. Your fingers trace inspiring words carved long ago into a bench. Sudden snores and raucous revelers upset the peace of 3 AM.
A cold shower, toothpaste, and your last cup of anemic coffee. You sweep sand from running shoes, shirt pockets, and bedsheets. Roommates offer you gifts of smooth pottery and goodbye hugs. There’s thunder over the lake as a soft rain caresses your arm.
By Chris Clark
This was written for the 2018 Wakonse Conference on College Teaching. While preparing for the conference I was thinking about imagery and realized I clearly favor visuals. Each line in this slideshow of impressions evokes other senses.
She tells them that tenure eventually comes. They hug him for unloading a tough story. We walk out of the woods together. I dare you to be your own self.
It’s a decade after graduation And Janey is taking her daughter to soccer. She’s forgotten your insane reading list And sweating through a monster macro midterm. But in her mind she can see an open door, And taste Tootsie Rolls from the bowl on your desk.
Janey has a raised ranch in Racine and an SUV. She can’t remember a B-minus on a term paper Or paying ninety bucks for a bewildering bio book. But she can hear you choking up While reading a powerful passage from Pericles, And smell popcorn at a finance study session.
Janey’s a junior assistant with a tough load. Confident, caring, and capable, She has no memory of Avogadro’s Constant Or the day you managed to misspell memento, But she remembers your cheering at her tennis match And concern over limping into class the next day.
Janey has an appointment with her doctor Because her cholesterol has jumped to 209. She doesn’t care that you skipped chapter 9 Or called on her spontaneously at 9 AM, But when you “projected the condition of your soul Onto your students and your subject,” Janey felt it.
It’s a decade after graduation And Janey still remembers that open door, That candy bowl, that warm smile.
By Chris Clark
[quote based on The Courage to Teach, by Parker Palmer]
Written for the Wakonse Conference on College Teaching, May 2015 Dedicated to Joe Johnston on his retirement from the University of Missouri
Day one and the syllabus is a tidy closet Where goals and grading scales hang neatly. The course calendar is a freshly set table Of inviting readings and juicy assignments.
As weeks go by, the learning room hums, Filling with the music of knowledge. But teaching is messy – the place gets cluttered. Grading turns tricky, plans become muddled.
The most engaging activities play out Like bouncy games in the den. They also make marks on the wall And leave chaotic souvenirs.
Students munch on inspiring concepts And drop breadcrumb bits of ideas. I scoop them up and try to put them Back together as a chocolate muffin.
The brightest assignments are taped to the fridge, While misfired strategies get crumpled and tossed. I straighten the frames on shiny test questions And polish the murky ones.
As the final class days approach, I find dust collecting under neglected skills And cobwebs in corners that resist learning. There’s not always time to be orderly.
Teaching is messy and that’s all right. I can deal with the disarray. Picking up happy plates and midnight glasses Reminds me that the venture was a hit.
I am from big feet and strong voices, from Lincoln Logs and a basement darkroom.
I am from seven people in four small bedrooms, from cold milk waiting in bottles by a suburban back door and engineers waving from trains that run through the back yard.
I am from forty-foot maple trees with branches that hold adventure.
I am from swimming in a clear lake and baseball on a quiet street, from a steel-framed bike with foot brakes and a pink station wagon with no seat belts, from English muffin pizzas and powdered skim milk.
I am from Minnie Struller and Nicolás Julia, from a shipwreck off the English coast, from a wagon returning from Gettysburg and a VW Beetle returning from a camping trip.
I am from Sunday mornings in church and Sunday nights signing around the piano.
The hummingbird zooms in, A semi-solid specter Hovering in sight for an insufficient second, Erect, wings beating impossibly fast.
Like the glorious idea That flirts with the cloudy edge of my brain, The hummingbird zips away, barely observed. Neither one intends to be glimpsed again soon.
Now a woodpecker settles on a scraggly tree. Tapping a few times along the branches Until it senses me nearby and takes flight.
But moments later, fifty yards away, It begins to knock out an uncomplicated rhythm. The woodpecker’s message is clear and plain.
But the hummingbird promised wonder.
Chris Clark
May 30, 2010, for the Wakonse Conference on College Teaching
I am PowerPoint. I am the dispenser of knowledge, Organizer of content, Displayer of charts.
I am PowerPoint. I tell you what to do. I require that you switch off the lights. I insist that you use me the entire class period. I control the course; do not stray from my linear path!
I am PowerPoint. I demand that you convert the Gettysburg Address into bullet points. I am a virus; if you hand me out, then students will stop going to class. Don’t worry about backup plans; my technology never fails.
I am PowerPoint. I am the seducer. Go ahead; fill me with animation and clip art. Use all my transitions and sound effects. Cram as much text as possible onto my screen. Sacrifice readability for flair. After all, image is everything!
I am PowerPoint. I am the absolute corruptor, the pushy punisher. I disrupt, dominate, and demean. You can misuse me – even abuse me, But you cannot refuse me.
I am PowerP… Hey! What are you doing? You can’t blank the screen! I’m in charge here! What are those students discussing? Why aren’t they looking at me? Okay, that’s better… What now? Why is this provocative image on the screen? Where is the text? Where are the bullets? Ahhh … there they are.
By Chris Clark For the Wakonse Conference on College Teaching
On the edge of a kitchen wall, penciled lines with names and dates Form a column that won’t soon get any taller And there is room for more photos on the refrigerator door. Yet the silent piano stands patiently in the living room, Its overstuffed bench promising Tori Amos and Robert Schumann.
The dungeons and dragons are played out. Unopened junk mail loiters on a dusty dresser And a profile of Matt Damon looks after a flock of stuffed animals. Meanwhile, the silent piano stands patiently in the living room, The ancestor photos on top dreaming of Claire de Lune.
In the garage, green and rusty red bicycles dangle, poised. A pea coat and ball cap hang vacant and ready in the hall closet. In the cupboard a Class of ’97 mug thirsts for what is around the corner. And the silent piano stands patiently in the living room, Its dormant pedals anticipating preludes and carols.
A solitary star shoots across the colorless late spring sky. Minutes later a furtive squall catches the awestruck beach unawares.
First a gentle rain sets casual astronomers scurrying for cover, then, as they shake sand from hooded sweatshirts, the sky opens up.
A dazzling flash brings brief clarity to the lakeside shadows. The jagged bolt of raw electricity links heaven and earth. Static shimmers in the air at the edge of the shadowed porch.
The impact is so close that there is no time to react before a head-splitting bang rattles the cottage windows. A mottled blue mug teeters on the rustic handrail.
There is awe in the light, wonder in the sound, danger of a fire, and it happened in the space of two heartbeats.
Mixing frantic exhilaration and exhausted sadness Each one arrives, the restless beginning of a melody. Different instruments are timidly sampled. Daring rhythms shift delightfully left and right.
One undecided sound attempts to influence others. But an emergent tune steadily gathers itself. Meanwhile, wizened composers have their say and Classic masterpieces validate their brilliance.
After a foreign sojourn tenderly bends the sound, An unambiguous form at last takes shape. Its colorful depths are explored with enthusiasm. Challenges are met and the arrangement matures.
Now a solo performance looms with uncertain results. A glorious composition cycle is climaxing too soon, Painstakingly polished, the piece must move on, Mixing wistful sadness and anxious exhilaration.
Chris Clark 