Three by Threes

Tea: Arctic Storm

Music: Keiko Matsui, "Water Lily", "Forever Forever" and "Wildflower"

Time: Night.

It's Thursday, which means it was teaching day with the fourth graders.

Today's theme: Haiku. And not that tensionless 5-7-5 crap, written by textbook writers. The biggies, as translated by Robert Hass.

One by Basho:

A caterpillar,
this deep in fall --
still not a butterfly.

One by Buson:

Green plum --
it draws her eyebrows
together.

And one by Issa:

I envy
that child being scolded:
end of the year.

"So what," I asked, "do all three of these poems have in common?"

Hands shot up at almost every desk, with the same answer: "They don't make sense."

Oh, fun. Time to earn my volunteer's pay.

We started with the basics: Three lines (actually, two and one); no more than 17 syllables; and some sort of seasonal reference.

Then, the payoff point: "Each of these poems uses a few words to tell a much bigger story."

More blank looks. But we -- and I do mean we -- worked through it. And one by one, the light bulbs went on.

(No, I'm not going to spell out the stories. You're bright, or you wouldn't be here.)

So was the whole lesson -- including an assignment/exhortation to observe the world for a week and come up with at least one haiku based on that observation -- a bit heavy for nine- and ten-year-olds?

I don't think so. Kids are smarter than textbook writers think. Fourth graders get that seasons change, that moments happen and then are gone and that the stories are in the details.

And they can count to 17. They'll be fine.

More Time to Give

Tea: Pu-Er Dante

Music: Band Aid, "Do They Know It's Christmas?"

Time: Night

Thanksgiving came on the earliest possible date this year, which means the Christmas shopping frenzy -- sorry, season -- is already in full swing.

Nothing wrong with gift giving, or receiving. This isn't a rant on materialism. But while you're out searching for that perfect somethingorother for that certain someone, please don't tune out the sound of bells -- and please put whatever you can into those famous red kettles.

The Salvation Army does a lot of good. in the United States and around the world. When I went to Greensburg, after the tornado there this past spring, Salvation Army volunteers were there, handing out sandwiches and bottled water. When floods submerged a big chunk of Osawatomie this summer, the Salvation Army fed and clothed people who had lost everything to the water. Bringing it closer to home, when an ice storm knocked out power at my house several years ago, my family and I had a warm place to sleep -- on cots set up in racquetball courts at the local community center -- thanks to the Salvation Army.

And that help goes where it's needed -- no matter what the recipients believe or don't believe.

Aid costs money, though. Lots of it. That's where you can help.

It's a long shopping season. That means plenty of chances to stop, check your pockets for change and drop something in. It all adds up.

Or if you'd rather point and click to give, here's your chance.

Not because someday, you could be the one needing help. Because it's the right thing to do.

Words and Music

Tea: Assam Melody with wildflower honey

Music: Ronald Sell, "Fear No More"

Time: Night.

Tonight's music (on the last night of my first visit to New York) is from the musical "The Frogs." I'm still more a Bob Walkenhorst guy than a Stephen Sondheim guy, but who can go wrong with Aristophanes or William Shakespeare?

See, Will's the lyricist here, although Sondheim did the music. The words are from "Cymbeline." It's the second time I've heard them tonight.

The first time, they were read by John Lithgow, who has edited a solid book of other people's poetry. He read from the book (and did a great recitation of "The Deacon's Masterpiece or The Wonderful 'One-Hoss Shay' " by Oliver Wendell Holmes). It reminded me of Dr. Seuss, which is never a bad thing.

My point? Do I need one? Can't it be enough sometimes to get lost in words and have that be the point?

Get Thee to the Park

Tea: African Brew

Music: Robert Fripp and the League of Crafty Guitarists, "Asturias"

Time: Yesterday.

(Because this would have been yesterday's post, were I not so fried at the time.)

My first visit to Central Park, and I spent a big chunk of it climbing on a rock and taking pictures.

(Of the rock, and the leaves in the rock, and all the cool stuff on the rock. Say it with me: Yeah, I'm weird like that.)

When I finally clambered down off the rock, I asked the ever-patient friend/writing colleague/kindred spirit Seánan Forbes if environmental artist Andy Goldsworthy -- to whose work she introduced me several years ago -- had ever spent any time (translation: done any work) in Central Park.

She couldn't recall any. I couldn't find any on the Net, but did find something related to and inspired by Central Park.

Yeah, um, not the same thing. Get your butt to New York and get to work, dude.

Steve's Adventures in Overloadland

Tea: Black Tea with Black Fruit

Music: King Crimson, "Neurotica" (Live)

Time: Night.

Yeah, I still love New York. (Got my introduction to Central Park today. It's gorgeous, what I saw of it -- which was only a fraction. Took some pictures of a rock. Go figure.)

And yes, I still keep meeting great people (sometimes two at a time, as with the hilariously delightful couple at Alice's Teacup) and have prospects for meeting more.

But six days away from home, moving at a different pace in a different space, have me a bit discombobulated. It's a short post and an early night, and tomorrow's another day.

Sleep well.

Measure of a Man

Tea: Assam Ginger (morning)/ Yerba Maté (turning of the day)/ Matcha (early afternoon)

Music: Cassandra Wilson, "Tupelo Honey"

Time: Pretty much all day

My father once said (or, more accurately, said about once a year) that, "The beauty of a man is tenderness."

This straight man has opened and closed his day seeing that kind of beauty.

There was Paolo, holding his young daughter with effortless (and obvious) affection in a Brooklyn tea shop. His eight-year-old son elbowed him to get his attention, and Paolo gave him that attention without a hint of irritation. The man radiated quiet love for his family.

And tonight, on the subway ride back from Manhattan, there was Brian, with his new wife and their children. He is headed to Iraq in January -- scarcely enough time to settle into this new shared life before putting his own on the line. It was apparent that he wasn't going to waste a minute between now and then.

And they shamed me. For every missed chance to be tender, for every needlessly harsh word, for every good word left unspoken.

But each day is a new chance. God help me not to miss them.

The Faces of New York

Tea: Earl Grey Bluestar

Music: Autumn's Grey Solace, "Eve"

Time: Morning (tea)/ Night (writing)

So many faces here. So many colors (skin, eyes, hair.)

It could be overwhelming, if I let it. Sometimes it threatens to be overwhelming, whether I let it or no.

What saves it from being so is the humanity of this city. I expected masks, focused on getting from Point A to Point B with neither time nor inclination for interaction.

It's both humbling and gratifying to admit that I was so wrong.

I've seen so many smiles here. Genuine smiles. From sidewalk vendors, from a guy on the subway with the greatest hoodie I've ever seen (it was red, with a skeleton on the front, back and hood). From an Iron Chef, who shook my hand.

(I have to credit the often-mentioned friend/collaborator/kindred spirit Seánan Forbes for that. She took me to Morimoto for lunch, then bounded over to ask if he'd say hello to me after he walked in near the end of the meal. I was too much the fanboy to say hi.)

And those are only three of the faces. There have been hundreds. More likely, thousands.

And I'm here until Saturday.

I really never thought I'd say this ... but I think I just might love New York.

Hello, Hello, Hello, Is There Anybody IN There?

Tea: Golden Monkey with Honey

Music: Too much to list. Make me pick one, and I'll choose a sung section from the Book of Common Prayer.

Time: Night

Okay, so let's see if this works. I've more than a week of posts stashed somewhere, and (grrr) have been unable to actually -- oh, you know -- post them.

So, to recap (I'll catch up later, if this works).

My Hallowe'en costume kicked butt.

I'm in New York right now, for writing (and learning about writing) purposes. Earlier posts dealt (or deal, if I manage to get them up) with the panic (and occasional joys) of preparing for the trip.

The guy playing the title role in "The Screwtape Letters" should insist the director be fired. Oh, wait, he is the director. He still should insist the director be fired. Karen Eleanor Wight, who played Toadpipe? Keep her.

I've found a church home in Brooklyn. It's an Episcopal/Anglican church, sparsely attended, the congregants largely immigrants from the West Indies. I'm a white Baptist from Kansas. Go figure.

Since this was going to be my post for the day, I'll elaborate.

My branch of the Christian tree has lost something by de-emphasizing rite and ritual and concentrating on teaching and personal experience, I believe. There is something -- well, sacred -- about treating a service as something both joyful and solemn.

There was rite this morning, but no rote. The Book of Common Prayer was not script, but a link to other congregations around the world united in the same purpose and intent. And the light that shone from those people's faces ... "divine" is an overused word, but it suits here.

My branch is still my branch. But it's good to know I can light and rest elsewhere. When I come back to Brooklyn, and I will, you'll know where to find me on Sunday mornings.

Now, I'm going to hit the "publish" button and see if this works.