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Staff Favorite, Adult Writing Division: Nature Nurture by Michel Sewell
Across the street, near a beat up concrete bridge sits our dog park and a small meandering creek, a tributary to the great Big Wood. I go here to shed my teacher role and be a student for awhile. Nature and flowing water in particular has always been a mentor to me. Tonight, the lecture is about my students.
I position myself on a teetering rock that stabs my thigh with coldness. Back off. The shore is clear of snow, but still uncomfortable and awkward.
The water trickles, like an entryway to a grand hotel. I am reminded of the honey butter scones from Warm Springs Restaurant and wonder if they’ll come back. Mmmm...Focus.
The trickling tickles like soft, distant giggles. I’m lured to the edge.
Rocks below the surface sit quietly, frozen fish, perfectly content, not uttering a sound. Muted shades of algae-covered orange, purple, red, silver. Most rest quietly obedient, waiting for time to pass. The spring will bring a roar of excitement, muddy their view with gallons and gallons of possibility.
A whitecap catches my eye and my ear. It is bravado, speaking his mind with confidence and a touch of disrespect. Shouting droplets out, it longs for attention. Look at me. Notice me.
Along the shore I go, observing, trying my best to absorb. Be the student. Walk my talk. Listen.
The distant barking distracts me. A dark wool hat rushes by. Three black poodles gallop in my periphery. A cow dog pants and slurps. Focus.
I continue to walk. A small eddy with a winter leaf makes my heart ache. Round and round it goes. Getting nowhere. No chance to escape. Hopeless.
With the sun nearly gone, I turn downstream. Alpine glow hits the faraway mountain tops, years away. Here, in front of me, are a million shades of gray trying to find their hue.
My new angle offers complexity, depth, and shadows. That boisterous boulder now looks gentle and serene. Simply trying to fit in.
The banks gently guide, like parents.
A broken chunk of earth sits ragged and torn just above the eddy. Roots stick out like drunk, fractured bones. This is what the eddy looks up to. I am relieved to see the leaf is gone.
Gingerly, I reach into the frigid, running pool and gasp. I hold a handful of dark stones closely. The algae easily slides away. The colors are surprisingly vibrant and detailed. Maroon laced with black webs. Alabaster crystal. Sandy gray with a perfect white ring. Remarkable. Inspiring. Individuals. I keep them in my pocket for awhile and hope I make a difference.
Back at the bridge, that steady trickle, like energy buzzing, murmurs with excitement. They’re ready to go. I skip a stone and hear it laugh. I toss the rest and they splash playfully, like a sea of graduation caps in the air. I smile, imagining where they will land, where they will go. And as always, I marvel at my teacher.
Staff Favorite, Student Writing Division: Ice on the Water by Brooke L. Lawrence
Ice on the water
Snow on the ice
Under it all
The water rushes by
Sometimes it’s dark
And sometimes it’s light
But it is always going
Go, go, go, the water rushes past
Stop, stop, stop, it cries as it whirls by
Begging me to stop and stare
To take the time to take a rest
From the rush of life
Because unlike the water
Under the ice
I have a choice
To stop
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