This is the Open Write, a place for educators to nurture their writing lives and to advocate for writing poetry in community. We gather every month and daily in April — no sign-ups, no fees, no commitments. Come and go as you please. All that we ask is that if you write, you respond to others to mirror to them your readerly experiences — beautiful lines, phrases that resonate, ideas stirred. Enjoy. (Learn more here.)
Our Host
Seana Hurd Wright is an Elementary Educator in Los Angeles and has been teaching 34 years. Retirement in the next year is definitely on her horizon. She enjoys spending time with her adventurous YA daughters and husband, doing puzzles, reading, travelling, and walking at the beach.
Inspiration
Remember a place or location that nurtured you, taught you a lesson, means the world to you, or one you’ll never visit again, due to awful memories.
Process
Identify some nouns, verbs, adjectives, and write about the place. See if you can paint a picture and describe it so we can see it “in our mind’s eye.” Focus on one aspect of the location. What would/did you do there, what fabulous or melancholy activities happened there and how did you experience them? Were they through your eyes as an adult, a child, or a teenager? I chose free verse to write about my special place. Have an enjoyable time writing about a special place OR write whatever you’d like to.
Seana’s Poem
When I cross the threshold and pass through those familiar glass doors,
Into the sanctuary, thousands of memories flood my mind.
Knee socks, itchy white stockings, hand gloves, and a black small pocketbook
were the norm for girls.
On those Sundays, my Mom always made me wear my “church clothes.”
I can still see the adult choir walking then myself with the youth choir following.
We’re all wearing long blue robes as I nervously walk down that lengthy
aisle that seems to be a mile long.
A few years later, as a Debutante for Christ,
I gracefully glided down that stretch in a pink sherbet long dress.
I lovingly took that lengthy stroll again
when I married and was blissful
having my father gliding with me
but didn’t enjoy all the stares.
Yet, I was so familiar with that aisle
and had been looking forward to that special amble
since I was a teenager.
Many years later, I took a somber walk with my relatives
when my Mom left this life and we
followed her remains down the walkway,
which was eerily comforting.
Years later, my daughters and I joined the Liturgical Dancers
and had the opportunity to not only walk
but gracefully run down the corridor to music
while the congregation watched with joy, awe, and admiration.
We twirled, formed circles, spun, and praised.
People were sweet when I waddled and stepped on my own two feet, at times.
The lane comforted me and seemed to say, “We got this!”
When the pandemic hit and places closed,
I missed my house of faith, my aisle, my promenades,
and memories of that special place.
I was grateful to return two years later
to view in person, the windows, the doors, my aisle
and remember the Baptisms, Communions, Weddings, hugs, smiles, familiar faces,
and all of the steps taken in that holy loving place.
by Seana Hurd Wright
Your Turn
Now, scroll to the comment section below to write your own poem. (This is a public space, so you may choose to use only your first name or initials depending on your privacy preferences.) Not ready? That’s okay. Read the poems already posted for more inspiration. Ponder your own throughout the day. Return later. And, if the prompt does not work for you, that is fine. All writing is welcome. Just write something. Also, please be sure to respond to at least three writers. Oh, and a note about drafting: Since we are writing in short bursts, we all understand (and even welcome) the typos and partial poems that remind us we are human, and that writing is always becoming. If you’d like to invite other teachers to write with us, tell them to subscribe. For suggestions on how to comment with care. See this graphic.
Seana, your vivid descriptions of memories in a narrow aisle evoked broad picturesque memories in many places that you made me jealous. 🙂 Our family moved a lot and each of the specific growing up events for me took place in a different church setting. But, thank the Lord, they have taken place! My poem is set on the porch in the fifth state we’ve lived in since our marriage!
The Man with the Holes in His Socks
Sitting across from him on the sun porch
Noticing those holes in the bottom of his socks,
Listening to the birds chirping their evening reports to their parents,
Hearing the squawk of the ducks as they teach their ducklings to swim upstream,
I wonder what it would be like.
What would it be like to have no one to talk to,
no one to report to,
no one to tease about the holes in the bottoms of his socks;
no one to interrupt my reading with,
“Hon. You’ve gotta listen to this.” or “Just a minute. Have you heard this one?”
Listening to the roiling of the steam just outside the sunroom window,
Hearing the water tumble down the man-made rock cropping,
Pausing as the mourning doves coo across the way,
I wonder what it would be like.
What would it be like to be able to finish a chapter
without being interrupted,
without learning something new about something I never knew was important,
something I’d never even thought about before,
without realizing how fortunate I am to hear
from the man with the holes in the bottom of his socks,
“Babe. This won’t take long?” or “Betcha never you hear this anymore.”
Sitting across from him, I watch the sunbeams streaming through the blinds,
Slipping over his shoulder and
Warming my toes,
Signaling that day is ending,
I wonder what it would be like.
Then, I smile to myself,
not having to wonder,
glad I don’t have to wonder,
thrilled I don’t have to wonder
What life would be like without the man with the holes in the bottom of his socks.
Seana, you write beautifully about your church with all the ways it has brought meaning to your life. I thought of my own childhood church, brainstormed words and wrote a tricube.
Sanctified
In this place
holy water
baby blessed
In this place
veil lifted
parting kiss
In this place
ashes laid
eternal rest
Margaret, I can’t help but think of how the tripling of the tricube adds emphasis to the importance of this space. The form also allows me to play with the reading – repeated first line, rhyme in lines 3 and 9, reading up/down (water, lifted, laid and holy, veil, ashes) – something I don’t do with other/longer forms.
Seana, such a strong reminder of the significance of our sacred spaces and the life-changing moments that exist within them. I was immediately returned to the many and varied aisle walks marking significant changes within my own life, both similar and differing from yours. Thank you for reminding us of the importance of space today.
The Space Between
There is a transition
between lives,
a time of becoming,
no longer what we were
and not quite what we will be.
Yet there is existence
in the space between.
The ancients created
pyres,
sending ashes upward
in a reverse fall,
an ashrise,
from this life to the next.
Or buried deep,
decompositions
darkening soil,
nurturing re-growth,
what we once were
becoming less
and more
in this
space
between.
I love the way you wove in “space between” and the word “becoming”. The small lines give us the image of becoming less, a focus of Lent in my faith tradition.
Seana, the progression through years, strategic moments, and rites of passage, give me a poignant glimpse into your younger and more unsure self toward the confident, grace-filled woman you are now. As that sanctuary shifted even in your pronoun (“my house…my aisle…”), we feel that deep connection. It reminds me of the sense of belonging that comforts me when I sit quietly amid botanical garden spaces that I hold in reverence. You remind me to pause for reverence in what opens our eyes and our hearts to beauty, thence comes grace. Thank you for a beautiful poem this morning.