Author Archives: sara holbrook

About sara holbrook

Poet/Author/Educator

January 16, 2008

Arriving in Kazakhstan

Inside the airport a gray mist hovers, gathering in intensity toward the vaulted ceiling. It is -30C/-2F outside and dark outside with few lights and no moon to reflect on the snow when we land at 5:30AM. The first person we are greeted by is a fellow in a soviet style wool grey uniform with an expression to match. He has a clipboard and not even a hint of a smile as the weary passengers trundle up the unheated jet way laden with packs and overstuffed bags. Another officer tells Michael to put his camera away in the airport, no pictures permitted. Not only does the customs agent not smile, he doesn’t even look up to make eye contact as he snaps his stamp, CHUCK CHUCK, on my documents. As we round the bend toward baggage we see one smiling face, Maura Martin, the teacher who has invited us, mouthing warm hellos and waving excitedly. The bags take forever, which might have been frustrating except we know the collapse of not having them arrive at all and we are grateful all of the books (and a few clothes) have miraculously managed to follow us 12,000 miles.

The sun rises late here, not because we are that far north, but because it has to lift its light over breathtaking mountains. We take a short nap and walk to the school, a building only four years old and decorated wall to wall in all kinds of student learning art. In every classroom the windows extend to the ceiling, welcoming all the sun has to offer. And everyone at the school is welcoming with broad smiles and the first impression at the airport is lost with the early morning mist. Tonight we will try to sleep a somewhat normal schedule and tomorrow we hope to go into Almaty to poke around. The conference begins Friday morning.

January 13, 2008

Packing

Packing the suitcases, weighing out what’s most important, repacking. Taking Starbucks to the teachers in Almaty and books and more books. More books. Can I get by with two pairs of shoes? The official list posted on the fridge. We notice Max put his name there, as if we would go to Capital University, scoop him up and put him in a suitcase. I have set aside Three Cups of Tea to read on the plane. But what’s really bugging me is that I don’t have a knitting project secured yet. Not so much for the plane, but for the inevitable airport waits, knitting keeps me evened out. The back and forth predictability is soothing, like a mantra. Traveling means new experiences, new people, new ideas. Knitting is a way to internalize it all, to customize the real, the imagined, and the unanswered to fit in my memory. To relive and remember.

I just finished a sweater that I made from wool scored in Italy last December when we went to visit the Smiths in Croatia. I had to start three different projects to finally find one that I actually had enough yarn to finish. The sweater pictured above was finished with less than 3 yards of wool left over. The crime is, the sweater is too bulky to pack to go to chilly Kazakhstan because of all the (did I mention?) books!

So, yesterday dragged Stephie and Scottie (who were very very patient, all things considered) to two yarn stores to find wool for a sweater for Michael. But unfortunately it is late in the season and the specific yarn needed for the pattern he chose is all sold out. I considered trying to board the plane without yarn, but that prospect gave me chest pains. Obviously, I need my mantra to attempt a transcontinental flight. So, today I am off to the yarn store again to buy enough for a floppy cowl neck for me. The pattern I found is perfect, nothing tricky, straight knitting I can almost do in my sleep. Now all I have to do is fit the yarn in the with, oh yeah, BOOKS.

January 10, 2008

Ode to the Mosquito of January 2008

Oh lone mosquito
for whom love is but remote,
your translucent wings have brought you here
by some mistake.
By whose warm but
misguided invitation have you
come to visit my bedroom on
this January night?
Poised as you are beneath my light
I ponder your presence
knowing not where you are ought to be
in dead of winter.
Is it winter?
The temperature today stretched its
mercurial arms to sixty-six.
Were you fooled by the
compromised climate’s gymnastics
just this once
or are you now become a new
accomplice to winter,
replacing frost and chapstick?
Silent, you appear as stunned as I
to find yourself beside my bed.
Mosquito, were you but illusion
I could more easily find sleep tonight.

January 5, 2008

Adventures at Home

Well, not entirely at home. At Aunt Becky’s. On New Year’s Eve day, the entire grand-crew (minus Sara Kelly) went for a ride out to Michael’s sister’s barn to visit the three new sheep, the goats, the horses and the three tortoise eggs (don’t touch). Becky is a vet her family has a menagerie! Steph and Ben rode the miniature draft horse around the riding arena and Dan, Thomas and Scott were content to pet the goats. The sheep were too shy to let anyone pet them. And finally, in the last photo, everyone came back to our place to clean up.

It was colder than it looked when we left home, but the snow and the scourge of little Sara Kelly’s pink eye contagion held off for another couple days, which was a blessing. I put this collage together to remind me of the day and that many and most fun adventures are right at home if we just take time to seek them out.

January 3, 2008

Long Underwear and Sun Screen

No, we are not planning a trip to ski the Rockies. We are planning two trips almost back to back and now that the holidays are over, we are beginning to organize ourselves for travel. First, we are off to Kazakhstan where the temperatures are -10F. Then we are home for a week and off to Jakarta International School, Bali for four days of vacation, and then back to Jakarta, Singapore for one night (night safari at the famous Singapore Zoo) and then Michael comes home and I’m onto Kuala Lumpur for two days and home. Hence, long underwear and sun screen are on the stack with neck pillows for the plane and plenty of reading material.

The picture of the Jakarta International School I found on fliker, taken by someone who calls himself thebigdurian. As another visiter to his site noticed, it looks like all the campus needs is hammocks and outdoor fans. Very un-Cleveland.

A teacher sent me a poem written by students from the Jakarta school about their field trip to Cairo. Keep in mind, a significant field trip in Cleveland amounts to a bus trip to the zoo not a flight to the pyramids! They did such a good job of capturing the moment that I was immediately transported, inhaling the blowing desert sands and hearing the tinkling camel bells. I know we are going to have a great time writing and sharing poetry. While we are there, our friend Georgia Heard will be visiting the elementary, an extra bonus.

Because of the Chinese New Year, we will go on holiday, too! We are traveling to Bali for some relaxation, exploration and sunshine. The teachers in Jakarta have been so helpful in providing direction for this leg of the trip.

Finally, I’m visiting students in Kuala Lumpur. This was the last stop on the trip to be scheduled and truly is a bonus. Can’t wait to meet the students there.

Last night I talked to the school principal in Almaty, Kazakhstan and we discussed final plans for the teacher workshop. I almost didn’t pick up the phone because the caller ID showed a number beginning with 999 and I thought for sure it was a solicitor. But no! It was Maura and she sounded like she was right next door. I never fail to be amazed at the wonder of telecommunications.

Although we are going to foreign ports, we have made email friends already. Isn’t amazing how you really begin to feel like you know someone from notes that pop up on the screen! Cruising blogs and fliker sites have given us a whiff of familiarity, but like a field trip in good ol’ Cleveland, it is the people we will meet that will leave the most lasting impression. Can’t wait.

January 2, 2008

Three Words for 2008

I’m reading Eat, Pray, Love: One Woman’s Search for Everything Across Italy, India and Indonesia by Elizabeth Gilbert . I don’t know if it is because of the book or because of some spotlight on ABC news last fall, but people seem to be into this three word thing. So I got to thinking about three words for 2008 — and how I need to write them down and put them on my computer screen, the back of my hand, and on the refrigerator and everywhere else to keep my focus where it will bring me the most inner satisfaction and not feed my inner demon brat who tends to rear her ugly head at odd hours stomping around screaming like an angry punk star.

I have a computer screen roughly the size of a drive in movie screen, a gift to my eyeballs last fall. I have been utilizing this wondrous window way too much for Scrabble. That’s right. Scrabble. Not writing, not blogging, not even photoshop. I suppose some argument could be made that Scrabble increases the vocabulary. but only (as Michael loves to remind me) if you really study the words and not just use them for points. Mostly the game is just that, a game. And when you get done with it, you have nothing to show for it but a score that vanishes as soon as you press “new game.” Not so satisfying (although I did get a 240 point word last week, not that I remember what it was). Scrabble is one of many mind games I play with myself, some more useless than others.

Which is all to say, I think I need to narrow my word focus. So, here are my three words for 2008:

Hope, Love, Create.

Hope because I can get so discouraged by the news (economy, war, environment, hatefulness) that Hope becomes a breeze I can no longer feel. Love is about taking care of myself, surrounding myself with people and activities that I truly love. To Create is to problem solve, not problem list. It is to make something out of nothing. It depends on the other two for survival. If I don’t nurture hope and a loving environment, nothing new can take root.

So those are my words.

December 28, 2007

The Globalization of Family

RAWALPINDI, Pakistan — Enraged crowds rioted across Pakistan and hopes for democracy hung by a thread after Benazir Bhutto was gunned down Thursday as she waved to supporters from the sunroof of her armored vehicle.

The news came just as Michael and I were in cleaning mode — Kelly, Brian and the kids would be here any time and CNN was on in the background. The story was updated — the last photo before she was shot displayed — appropriate experts were consulted (Guiliani???), I believed she was pro democracy and I’m not so sure that the corporate interests that support her incumbent opponent are. After all, Pakistan is a major go-to place for cheap labor for the war profiteers.

Meantime, the van full of Weists arrives. Excited hugs, stories about what Santa brought, how long the drive from D.C. and who gets the bathroom first. In between cold drinks and family talk, the Bhutto story stays on in the background. Even after CNN is replaced by the Wii for a couple of quick bowling games, the grownups continue to talk about the former prime minister’s rise in power, who was most corrupt, the failure of the incumbent to provide protection. We watch as each pundit warns of new dangers in our neighborhoods on the flip side of the world due to her assassination. In my neighborhood? The only Pakistani I know I bought milk from that very morning and he seems a most pleasant man. Recent arrival. We laughed because neither of us could figure out the price of a pack of gum and I agreed to come back later, thereby negotiating an on the spot chewing gum deferment.

What news did people greet one another with before the news was globalized? Did we only have Aunt Mildred’s operation and Cousin Jack’s infidelities to jabber about as the guests settled in? Seasoned of course with pinches of weather and travel times. Instant access to global news has not only impacted how we do business, it’s changed the way we welcome one another, “Did you hear . . .?”

It’s possible such disconnected greetings may not be all bad — being met with “Oh, I guess you really have put on weight,” as my tactless father said to me one time reaching out to pat my belly and plummeting my precarious self esteem and 8 years of therapy to that scary place in the basement populated by dragons, where the furnace growls and the water tank spits fire. It took weeks and another full year of therapy to drag myself up from that darkness. And then there was the time he arrived apparently having bragged up my haphazard housekeeping to his fiance Baby Blue Betty for the whole trip. From Florida to Ohio, that’s a long damned trip. Unfortunately his final climactic revelation was to be whipping open my front door to my home’s usually chaos. But this visit coincided quite nicely with my introduction to Mighty Maids.

When Dad, who was a Grand Master of I Told You So, discovered there was no evidence to back up his case (the Mighty Maids had even sorted out my silverware drawer, a final disappointment), he shrunk down into my too soft sofa, glowering, without even taking off his hat, Baby Blue sitting beside him like a cheer leader at half time and me wondering if I could still find my spoons in those neat little stacks. Dad’s planned conversation starter foiled, the three of us sat staring uncomfortably at the heightened patina of the freshly excavated coffee table. An assassination might have come in handy in that case, and it’s entirely possible one or more was contemplated. It was 20 years ago, who remembers these things.

But this case is different. We all like each other. I want to know everything that is happening in their world, with the stuttered, word twists unique to 2-4-8 year olds. Then we can talk about the business of the rest of the planet.

So, two things to remember: I intend to become quicker on that red button on the remote when family pulls in the drive, I also have to be conscious that family news (Thomas’ latest new word, Danny’s domination in video bowling and Ben’s latest achievements on his basketball team) gets its due. More than equal billing with the global news. Family always deserves premium space.

And an always reminder that in the midst of any crisis — be that a remote tragedy as today’s, a health crisis, or economic crisis – – it is the store of moments of undistracted joy we absorb through family connections that will steady us all.

December 22, 2007

The Story of Stuff

Last night Michael and I were up at the mall (again?) and he remarked, “isn’t it amazing how this season just gets people to go out and buy stuff? Look at this place.” And it is. I’m a victim myself. Stuff. Lots of it. Piled in the aisles, marked up and marked down. Shoppers elbow to elbow sniffing around for bargains. Occasionally and more recently, this is really beginning to nag at me. And I admit to being a lifelong shopper, a just in case, you never know what you’ll find, store cruiser. But my visceral discomfort is disrupting my natural internal browser — I can’t even look around with guilt free pleasure any more.

I wrote a poem, Don’t Bury Me on Brookpark Road, sometime in 2001 after the President told us to go shopping after 9/11. Excerpt:

When I’ve punched the snooze button for the last time,
I don’t want to wind up pew-wedged between the honk and wheeze
of Mr. Donut and Mr. Muffler, across from the pawn shop,
marooned at the crossroads of more. More billboards, more tacos,
more mattresses, nail shops and temporary stops on this path to the land fill for
rental cars, wastebaskets, and girls baring a** for more.
More cat beds, more tennis racket teddy bear welcome signs,
collectible designed for ease in obsolescence.

When the non-transferable terms on my desk drawer
of lifetime warranties run out, don’t plant me beside this
hurried stream of humanity, its pace accelerating frantically
as it tapers into the purchase of today at crazy low prices, guaranteed to satisfy
(for six months or ten thousand miles whichever is lower) . . .

Which is a pathetic place to be in life — not buried on Brookpark Road, but walking around the mall mentally quoting myself from five years ago wondering why I haven’t been heeding my own words. Which reminded me of this little 20 minute video that I stumbled across, that is so succinct and precise, it is a poem in and of itself.

http://www.storyofstuff.com/

There are a lot of amazing observations in the video, but the one that smacked me the most firmly is how happiness goes down as advertising goes up. It is as if our entire media culture is producing generations of malcontents. I’m a poet, so I was born a malcontent, but I hate to see the rest of the planet pushed in the same direction. What fun is that?

Well, apparently, not much if the commercials for antidepressants are to be believed. They are almost as scary as their warning labels. Michael point out one drug advertisement to me the other day that lists “urge to gamble” as a possible side effect.

I think we all must have this affliction — we are all gambling wildly with our futures every time we buy more of this stuff. The other day we walked into Walgreens to get a prescription and up and down aisles of stuff that no one needs. I mean no one. Plastic flowers, flashing greeting cards, synthetic garlands, all harvested from — where? All going where?

My new year’s resolution is going to be to think harder about purchasing stuff. I’m going to write that down and tuck it in the same pocket as my credit card. We’ll see if that works better than just feeling guilty.

December 14, 2007

Emerick Elementary

Not just any elementary, Emmerick is my grandson Ben’s school, in fact that’s his head right under the first O in Holbrook. I had a great time. First, the kids all knew my name (thanks to librarian Elizabeth and all the teachers) and a lot of ground work by the PTO, Cheryl, Marcy and my daughter Kelly. Thank you thank you.

I don’t think that I was too embarrassing for Ben — I refrained from any public displays of affection and only called him Benny once. He seemed okay with the visit.

Kelly talks to schools all over the country and arranges my school visits and book sales, but this is the first time she had ever run the book sale herself. “That’s a lot of work!” was her assessment (and it always is). From now on she is going to recommend that TWO PTO moms run the book sale, particularly if they are also running car pools!

But, getting back to the great time part of the day — what nice kids — and responsive! It was fun to meet Ben’s friends and have lunch with him. I had the opportunity to write with the fourth graders and the teachers were all very involved, writing with the kids and coaching them along. They had been working on color poems and were anxious to share some of those (lucky me).

Tomorrow I drive back to Cleveland and the weather is looking a bit threatening. Hoping that the mountains of PA treat me with as much kindness as the students and faculty of Emerick!

December 7, 2007

Holiday Wishes

This morning I played around with a photo from Kelly’s new camera (above), thinking about last weekend. I had Katie’s two oldest, Stephie and Scottie, on Saturday. I needed to buy a filter for the fridge at Sears and pay a bill at Penney’s. You don’t have to know my mall to know that these stores lay at opposite ends of the shopping maze. It’s like that everywhere, and the playground for the kids is right in the middle. Talk about taking kids into a candy store — try the mall at holiday time. “Can we build a bear, buy a Webkin, this Mickey the size of Godzilla?” How can they resist? People get advanced degrees in how to drive kids into a feeding frenzy, the goal being to turn them into credit addicts before they can multiply and divide. How early do you explain to kids that those build-a-bears were made by kids their age, kids who were denied schooling and sunshine for their pleasure. If our bright eyed kids are too tender to know this, what about the tenderness of the faceless others? Do I always have to be a wet blanket on fun? Am I just a wet blanket? I stood there in the mall holding Stephie and Scottie’s hands, both of them holding slurpies in the other and just said, “no, no, no,” conflict raging inside of me. How much to you tell them? When?

Years ago I wrote a Christmas poem that is entirely too sentimental to ever publish. But I’m going to put it up here as we all head into another weekend of shopping. CNN will be charting our progress on Monday, weighing it against last year’s binge, a report card for all the high cost marketing degreed.

December comes.
I non-stop-shop.
To guard against a yuletide flop.
When all the gifts I give go back.
I sigh. But, hey –
who’s keeping track?
What do you give to those who have?
Computers, bikes and skates –
Enough sweaters to warm Cleveland,
DVDs and tapes.
Sneakers, games and books,
magazines and jeans.
What could Christmas bring
that’s well within my means?

What if I give you patience
the next time you get stressed?
What if I say, okay,
I know you did your best.
The next time you fall short,
what if I lend a hand?
Or if things get confused,
I help you make a plan.

The next time you act smart,
what if I try to learn.
If my gift is kindness,
would that be returned?

sara holbrook