In My Time Capsule

 I find writing to be both a skill and an art, forcing me to dig deep inside myself and marry the voice of my mind with that of my heart. It is scary stuff, difficult, but also rewarding. And while my college backpack was stuffed with books on finance, economics, marketing, statistics, and accounting, I realize now, in my later years, that writing is the essence of who I am meant to be. 

As a result, I am devoting the summer to studying the skill of writing. In June, I am taking an “Essay and Writing in Nature” workshop with one of my favorite authors, Jerry Dennis. Two of his books, The Living Great Lakes and The Windward Shore, greet me each morning as I pass my sacred bookshelf. 

Throughout the summer, I will be studying poetry with Jack Ridl, award winning poet, former Hope College professor, and friend. His book, Losing Season, is one of my favorites as it reminds me of my Dad, a former Rose Bowl champion and football coach who experience the thrill of a winning season and the agony of a losing one. Jack’s books, and all my favorite poets, now sit on a shelf next to my writing table. Part of my daily ritual is to start each morning reading a poem. 

I have no doubt both classes will push me outside my comfort zone. But that’s how I learn. Influenced by parents who believed strongly in education, learning, for me, is life. My first assignment with Jack is to write a poem titled “My Time Capsule.” The first line of the poem is to be “I would place . . .” To my surprise, when I sat down to write the poem, words tumbled on to the page that explain  why I am willing to learn the chemistry behind microbeads; study public trust doctrine; listen to farmers describe the challenges of competing in a global environment; understand the science behind treating ballast water to prevent the spread of aquatic invasive species; and why I read legislation that affects our water, our air, and our land. A

nd so, with great humility,  I share with you one of the first poems I have written. It is the music of my heart.

In My Time Capsule

I would place . . .
a tablespoon of clear,
clean water from the depths 
of my beloved lake,
a crumbled leaf
from the disappearing ash,
a powdery white feather 
from the piping plover, 
the scrappy branch 
of a Pitcher’s thistle.

On second thought . . .

I will fill the capsule
with my teeth-grinding
worry that nature’s
treasures are disappearing;
add the moments 
of debilitating despair,
the fleeting flashes of cynicism, 
and all negative energy
that tempts silence, apathy, 
my own death.

And then . . . 

I will wander in wonder
alongside that lake, 
reveling in the glories 
of each holy moment,
adding my voice
to the hope-filled chatter
of the finches and chickadees
flittering about the forest, 
the seagulls and sanderlings
scavenging the beach.