Fisherman’s Picnic

The crickets have begun chirping in earnest on this cool summer evening. Their unmistakable song; an ever present reminder that we’re entering the later days of summer which lean into autumn. I love the sound of them, but the cool breeze makes me shudder a bit in anticipation of even cooler breezes to come. Which reminds me that overall, one of the greatest lessons of life is to treasure the present moment and to let go of the past. So much easier said than done.

Perhaps I’m especially sentimental as I write this as both of my adult children have returned to their homes in California. Our time together always feels so fleetingly swift and so precious.

The past three weeks have been a bit of a blur with birthday celebrations, a book launch party and then a few events in Grand Marais for the annual Fisherman’s Picnic. Because this is a new way of life for me, all of it is an incredible learning curve. However, all of the lovely people that I have had the opportunity to meet have been a priceless gift.

I “retired” from teaching in June of 2022. As anyone in the public school system knows, it’s been a bit of a rough road to be in the classroom these past ten years. I don’t feel as if I’ve actually retired, rather, I stopped working in a system that was not sustainable for me any longer. Leaving that atmosphere of learning together with students has been a huge loss. I miss those connections with students and sharing in the work that they produce.

However, doing haiku workshops and working with folks young and old on writing a haiku that is meaningful to them has reignited the connection that I’ve been missing. I’m so humbled by the open vulnerability that others have shared with me as they gingerly put their written work in my hands. I know sharing what is so precious and personal to oneself is terrifying.

Our haiku writing table next to the Drury Lane Bookstore in Grand Marais.

Sarah Weaver, one of the participants of our haiku workshop, wrote a haiku that she said that I could share. She wrote both the haiku and the haibun. Warning, grab your tissues.

Dust on my trinkets;

When did I last clean the shelves?

They’re pieces of you.

Items had a place in the home, specific places before you were gone. I haven’t moved them since. If I move them or touch them, it’s like disturbing the points in time I remember so vividly. Maybe I can preserve those memories, blanketed under the dust.

Ah, thank you Sarah. It’s just so beautiful. And many thanks to all of the folks we met, young and old. Keep writing, keep sharing.