Poetry Readings in Woodinville, Suddenly Summer Weather, Goslings and Goldfinch, Searching

Goldfinch with coral bells

Poetry Readings in Woodinville

This week we had a poetry reading at Woodinville’s J. Bookwalter Winery, where I got to see some old friends from the Seattle side I hadn’t seen much since the pandemic. Suzanne Edison, Heidi Seaborn, and Cindy Veach did a great reading, and there was a lively open mic after, as well as poet discussions (over wine) that lasted until closing time. I have to say it is awfully nice to have a burgeoning poetry scene in my own neighborhood, for so many years I was driving long distances to do these things—now they’re practically in my backyard.

This week has brought with it suddenly summer weather—bright sun, warmer temps, the arrival of our goldfinches and goslings. I have been working on more outside walks as I want to be ready for the Lavender Farm when it opens next month, as well as another trip to San Juan Island (full of difficult but rewarding walking areas). In preparation, Glenn and I have made trips to the Japanese Garden in Seattle and the Bellevue Botanical Garden, and we also walked around our local wineries. Today we took the trip East to Snoqualmie Falls and Olallie Falls on the Snoqualmie river. It was nice to sightsee in our area without too much traffic or hassle, since everyone who’s able is out at their summer homes or Europe or whatever (not jealous, not jealous, not jealous…)

Glenn and I at Snoqualmie Falls

Searching

I am still feeling a bit at odds and ends—am I doing the right things? Am I doing too much—or too little? What should my priorities be right now (health vs. fun vs. work, etc.) Is this normal at my age? I’ve signed up for way too many things next month (judging a poetry contest, taking a class, doing a tutorial, plus an essay or two will be due, plus all normal things including another dental crown.) Needless to say, I have anxiety about all of this. I have been trying to reconnect with some old friends—the loss of one friend makes you realize how important that is. Here’s another kind of frightening thought—do I even want to do poetry anymore, or should I be trying something else? I have a lot of friends (poets) who’ve moved into essays, memoirs, even standup comedy. It certainly would be nice to be paid one in a while and have people actually read what you write. I don’t know what’s next. I’m open and hoping for guidance.

While the world is burning, the poet acts a little lost. She goes to the forest, where several giant trees have toppled—the forest seems more bare, though the river runs even louder than ever. The gardens have fewer plants and fewer birds. Maybe she doesn’t recognize the places she thought she knew. She worries about losing people, not just places. She doesn’t see a clear path ahead the way she used to. That can be unsettling. She worries that she used to be the hero of the story, and now she’s just the one taking notes.