The other day I was trying to get my peeps, a group of adults with disabilities, to write a group poem. I taped a piece of paper on the wall and had my magic marker at the ready. They were sooooo not feeling it. Good luck getting these folks to do something they don’t want to. Even the couple of staff who were there– kids in their 20s – weren’t rising to the occasion. So I gave up. Instead, I decided to just write down what they were all saying, the words and phrases that were swirling all around the room.
We went to live in Indonesia a few years ago. My ex-husband needed to do research – he was studying bamboo – and I was happy to go along.
I’ve always dreamed of having a green bird. A child’s dream, I know, but a part of me still is a child. Bright green, with jeweled eyes, she would ride on my shoulder and nuzzle my ear — my feathered talisman in this strange and exotic new world. Once, in a crowded, dusty market in Denpassar, I spotted my bird, high up in a cage fluttering with reds and yellows. We were rushed that day, we had no time for bird-shopping, but I knew I would go back for her.