Springtime Solitude

Old Monk is my haiku teacher. When I was a novice, I spent time writing with her for a few months, practicing different styles of poetry. The haiku is her favorite.

I remember trying to force the haiku back then; I remember trying so hard to polish them. I wanted to be ingenious, maybe even cunning with my words. Don’t I do that with my life all too often? I would create a version of the lines in my head, honing the words, not putting anything down until I was satisfied. I would only present one set of lines for each idea. I don’t think I was ever really satisfied though.

Ah, so young. And still, now, so young.

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I went into solitude this past weekend for a much-needed break. The haiku about the lilacs came first, and then some more. But I knew that that one was the gift, the spontaneous grace. I could tell when I was trying harder than I needed to. I went back and experimented with different versions of the same poem. Let it evolve, Val. Let life evolve. Old Monk has taught you that—over and over.

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Here are some poems that came to me on the deck, in the morning, by the water, surrounded by delicious nature.

Thanks, Old Monk. For all the lessons then and now…and in between..and to come.