One of the greatest joys of growing a garden is to gather flowers from it and arrange them for someone you love!
..........
And, for those garden nerds among us . . . I know you're out there--this bouquet contains catmint, foliage from a bleeding heart, unopened shasta daisies, 2 types of peonies (Sarah Bernhardt [light pink, unscented] & Dr. Alexander Fleming [dark pink and absolutely intoxicating scent!]), 2 types of roses (New Dawn & Desdemona), fern, lace cap hydrangea, smooth hydrangea (Incrediball), & baptisia. Happy gardening!

April is always a transformative month. Snow hopefully gives way to rain. Brown lawns and branches start to become dotted with green buds and shoots. Azaleas pop with purple blooms and Forsythia shout yellow streaks. Winter gear gets put away, mostly--since it often gets pulled out again at some point before May.

​Being a gardener, I need to hold myself back. Let the leaf litter lie. I suppose that could be some sort of wise, old adage, "Let the leaf litter lie." Sometimes what looks like a pile of leaves is really a mound of miracles all taking place beneath the surface. All sorts of insects are continuing their life cycle unbeknownst to us. Things that look absolutely done for--will start breaking through the surface in a month. It's crazy!!

This April, while it seemed that so much was coming to life around me in the natural world, there were many instances when things felt like they were coming to a close. And, I guess that makes sense. Life is a cycle. Things end and things begin--and, so often, things cannot begin until other things end. I won't go into all the examples of this in history.

For me, The Room to Write, the non-profit I founded 9 years ago, is coming to its end--of sorts. I suppose it's like that pile of leaves in spring and, really, all kinds of things could be coming to life beneath the surface. We just can't see it. The hope is that some of the programs we have brought to the community can live on in some form. 

My favorite event that became an annual highlight, though it took a pause after Covid--as so many things did, is the Young Writers and Illustrators Meet, Greet & Create event that we planned in collaboration with the Boys & Girls Club of Stoneham and Wakefield (now BGC Metro North). It was always so inspiringto give away so many wonderful, locally-written books to kids of all ages--toddlers to teens--and to offer youth an opportunity to meet the author of each book and feel good about liking to read or write or be creative! We hope that event continues into the future as well. 

The writers critique group coordination has already been passed on to Marc Olivere to keep going and I look forward to submitting to that more regularly when I have time to get back to some of my writing projects. The quarterly Writers and Illustrators Meet & Greets aren't likely to live on, but there are two neighboring writers' communities that have programming that can serve a similar purpose: FYACS's Writer's Studio in Melrose & Writers Collaborative Learning Center in Reading. 

Sometimes we just have to let go. We can't control what happens after that, but we can be hopeful. Sometimes things happen differently from our expectations, but that doesn't mean our efforts were wasted. ​Heraclitus, a Greek philosopher, is quoted as saying something along the lines of, “change is the only constant in life.” Ironically, this quote was found as a fragment of a book he wrote that was destroyed. And, it certainly has value and has lived on despite being only a piece of the complete work it was originally presented within. 

For now, The Room to Write's Board of Directors has decided to let the leaf litter lie for the rest of the year and so TRtW will slip into a sort of hibernation to be sure any new life still trying to emerge has a chance to do so. Whatever happens beyond that--I'll always be grateful for the community I found, the lessons I learned and the opportunity to unabashedly advocate for the art of writing!

I did something for myself! How lovely:)

Sometimes reading email can lead to something good. One wintery day, I got an email from the bottomless cup of local author Pam Vaughan. Just when you think she can't possibly have any more in her: more Pam Vaughn. She's amazing and also usually smiling--two great qualities!

So, thanks to Pam and her fellow volunteer Julia Boyce--the Whispering Pines Retreat found a new home this year at Endicott College in Beverly, MA, which so happens to be a hop-skip-and-a-jump from my house. How convenient! So, I signed up!

I had big plans to be ready and packed ahead of time, but as weeks usually go--I pushed off from my dock much later than expected. The sweet images of a full face-plant into a pillow upon arrival started to dissolve into the reality of hoping I got there before the whole thing was over. I arrived exhausted and wondering how I would string together even one coherent sentence. Check-in. Luggage lugging complete. I had a full 9 minutes before the itinerary was in full swing, so even though I have yet to be published--I slipped right into the role and did what any professional, published author would do upon arrival: face-plant! Eight and a half minutes of paranoid (like, I might actually fall into a deep sleep and miss everything, so I kept checking the time) face-plant felt so luxurious.

So, that there was too much information. I know. Sometimes that's how I waste all this precious brain space, so that when it comes time to remember a name, a location and something specific that may need recalling in the future--there's a bit of fog. Anyway, the Whispering Pines Writers Retreat was great! It was small enough to be manageable, and it was filled with people I wanted to follow up with forever after I left. I haven't quite gotten to that part yet, but I'm working on carving out some more time to do it. 

What a great weekend! Such talented participants to be immersed among along with some really great--and very fun--editors and agents who enlightened us with their industry knowledge and insightful honesty: Matt Phipps, Associate Editor, G.P. Putnam’s Sons|Penguin Young Readers; Marissa Brown, Associate Agent, Pippin Properties; Olivia Luchini, Assistant Editor, Penguin Workshop|PRH; Alexander Slater, Agent, Sanford J. Greenburger Associates; and ​Ariel Richardson, Senior Editor, Chronicle Books.
Now . . . I will clam up:)

Sooo . . . this was not the poem I thought I was going to borrow from my collection when I saw "February" and thought Valentine's Day and love--and typed the title "Love is in the air." Though, that does feel even more poetic as I imagine birds in flight.

​I planned to post a poem I wrote about my husband before he was even so much as my boyfriend. But--as life would have it--I clicked on the first poem in my folder: "A Mother's Vigil" and read it. It's a poem I wrote specifically for my first long project, my young adult novel: Lucy Bound in Lyrics. So much love is wrapped up in motherhood. Some is pure and simple. Some, complicated and frustrating. But, all of it originates from the right place, even if that's not always where it seems to end up.

This is a poem that has the ability to make your head hurt trying to sort through the various shades of love, but love refuses to present itself in one, predictable, solid color. As far as mothers go, Robins are some of the most impressive! This poem was inspired by a true story as it played out beyond and framed by my kitchen window in my back yard. A Robin stood vigil over her injured hatchling all day and beyond dusk. I worried about her, as well as her other babies still in the nest in the tree outside our dining room window. 

Love can be so tragic and yet beautiful.
Here's to all the moms.

A Mother’s Vigil
​
Among the twigs and discarded twine
four Tiffany-blue eggs lay, too humble to shine.
Mama bird sits protecting her nest
from the chill of the north, the scorch of the west.
Warming, padding, tending her hatchlings
feeding when hungry, when lonely—she sings.
Each day the necks stretch, they feed and they grow.
Four birds take to flight, but one meets a fierce foe.
Chirping and trembling, knocked from the sky,
Mama tends the fallen while her other babes fly.
Vulnerable, heartbroken—a guard at her post,
Keeping sorry vigil by the bird who needs her most.
While the other birds soar, swooping strong and free
The injured bird lay suffering--
in the dirt 
beneath the tree.

Can I be honest? I hope so. In times of tumult, I am grateful for my faith. I know having a faith at all can be controversial these days, but faith in something far bigger than myself has been a light in my life. Whatever your faith may be, I implore you to cling to or sail toward it when feeling lost at sea.

National politics can be overwhelming. Let's face it, these days--even small-town, local politics can be a bit ruckus. It's hard to have an opinion these days, but I do have one. Take it or leave it. Amid the divisions, don't retreat completely, and conversely, don't get so distracted and consumed by it that you forget the gifts right in front of you. There is always something to be grateful for, and there are so many tangible ways to help your immediate community, family or friends.

In early November, as I contemplated how to meaningfully focus my efforts and attention in the coming years, I came across this passage in my handy dandy daily devotional: Our Daily Bread. The reading is included below. I decided I needed to start simply and tend to those within reach rather than get too wrapped up in so much that seems beyond my own personal control. No matter who or where we are, ask: How can we serve the community we're in?

The Room to Write and the Arts Collaborative of Wakefield teamed up for a second time in 2024 to bring words and art together in one exhibit. Writers don't often get the opportunity to publicly display their words on a wall as art, so TRtW jumped at the chance to be part of a second exhibit. The first time around, artists made art available, then writers selected a piece of art to inspire their words. This exhibit flipped the order and writers offered their writing for artists to select from as inspiration for creating their artwork.

A poem that I wrote this past summer, had the privilege of acting as inspiration for and being displayed alongside a piece of art by Kendall Inglese as part of the Arts Collaborative of Wakefield's October Exhibit & Sale: Elements: Earth, Water, Air, Fire. Of course, being the overachiever that I am--I wanted to weave all four of the elements into my poem, rather than pick just one, though I do love me some wind (aka: air:). Perhaps not picking just one element was to the poem's detriment? I'll let you decide.

Either way, my poem was inspired by the partial quote, "Where flowers bloom, so does hope." I am a passionate gardener and absolutely love that image, which is carved into a bird bath behind the summer cottage we stay in. That optimism was displayed by a lone Balloon Flower (Platycodon grandiflorus) bloom, pictured, that was showing off its purple hue for all to enjoy in an area where it was not planted and had no business surviving, let alone blooming.

The hope exuded by that singular flower so struck me that I took a photo and wrote a poem titled, "Where Flowers Bloom, So Does Hope." The writer and artist pairings from the October 2024 exhibit will begin posting to view on the North of Boston Writers Network blog in December 2024. The prior exhibit, "Tell Me a Story," pairings were featured on the NBWN blog from April to August 2024, if you'd like to look back at those. Read more about the October exhibit by clicking here.

Where Flowers Bloom
​by Colleen Getty

After the fire.
Flood waters retreat.
Embers cool.
Soil dries solid beneath feet.
Winds bring respite,
not fuel for flames.
Earth slowly shrinks and sleeps, but
world unrecognizable remains.
Give time.
Take heart.
The End
simply must precede
The Start.
Life insists on living
below the surface of
her skin, its shell, his eyes—that dirt.
A cell, an egg, the idea—one seed
can soothe our hurt.
Have patience.
Imagination.
Alpine Asters survive on the steepest slope,
And where flowers bloom
–so does hope.*

--This poem and artwork posted on the North of Boston Writers' Network blog, found here:
​Where Flowers Bloom by Colleen Getty, which served as inspiration for the art of Kendall Inglese | North of Boston Writers Network

* Quote from Lady Bird Johnson’s at the Annual Convention of the Associated Press Managing Editors Association, Oct. 1, 1965.
“When I go into the poorest neighborhoods, I look for the flash of color - a geranium in a coffee can, a window box set against the scaling side of a tenement, a border of roses struggling in a tiny patch of open ground. Where flowers bloom, so does hope - and hope is the precious, indispensable ingredient without which the war on poverty can never be won.”

Have I mentioned my belief that the key to happiness is low expectations?

So, adjust your expectations and you may just enjoy this poetry. For me, a polished piece of poetry has the potential to be something to fear from the writer's point of view--because I'm saying, "This is perfect! There is nothing more I can do with it, so don't bother to look. Just sit back and enjoy this symphony of sounds." [Chef's kiss into the air . . . mwuuaahhh]

It's so much less intimidating to open up my rough and tumble sketchbook (no, I don't often--ever?--sketch, unless doodling counts. But, taking a break from writing and making time for art of the more visual sense was the intent of the workshop where I received my sketchbook and, like that prized pair of jeans in the closet fitting a little too snugly, I am leaving the sketchbook open to the possibility of being sketched in at some point in the future.

Ok--the poems. That was what this blog post was all about before my sketchy sketchbook swooped in and distracted me, but I have to admit digressions are such fun! So--how did these unpolished poems come about? Well, long story short: this past summer: two adults three teens and a tween = 6, plus cat = 6.25, two weeks later: minus three, subtract another one unexpectedly = 2.25 (a mom, her boy & a cat:) = the ability to hear myself think. Combine this with a collaboration between The Room to Write and Arts Collaborative of Wakefield special art exhibit requiring 12 writers to pair with 12 artists + one summer slumber for all + deadline = 9 writers + me = 10.
So, I had to write. 

At one optimistic point, I told myself that I would write a poem a day. No big whoop! But, I also had a cottage to paint, a garden to rehab, an uncharacteristically angsty teen, and a boy to spend the tail end of summer with. I started with the poem that ended up being paired with a piece of art for the exhibit. Next day a revision of that first poem. Then two poems, rough and ready. Then two more poems with two different pens. That was a challenging day, which is reflected within the poems. The next day, one poem while life simplified. Five days in a row: nothing. I was too busy kayaking, bike riding, beaching, painting, reading and allowing my mind a rest. Then one last poem on the last day of vacation. And, as Pa Ingalls always said, "All's well that ends well." And it did. There was a lot to love about our family's summer vacation, but that last week was a slice of serenity that was something to be savored.

How I do love summer. I never used to. It was always too hot and felt too long. Strange. Maybe.
But, then I discovered a beach umbrella and the relief of swimming and the simplicity in sundresses. 
Simplicity. I really appreciate the simple things these days.
Summer is simple. Less clothes. Less school. Less sports. Less scheduled. Less.

But, it's onto Fall. Autumn! The only season I know that has two names and no matter how much I've taken a shine to summer over the last several years, I'll always have a soft spot for my favorite season of Fall. It just has that cozy factor that I love. Not too cold and yet not too hot . . . Just right:)

Here's to summer in photos.
And cheers to autumn:)