What is Here


I am open to what is here.

Here, near a pool of warm water, drizzling rain, lavender Lilly pads surround me.

Cattail breeze,

star shine,

a vessel collects what I will need later.

Morning glories and passionflowers linger near by.

They, with their healing do not worry today medicine, help me breathe.

I sit, open, eyes closed, fully embracing what is.

I embrace my changing body; will nurture it so it no longer feels heavy to hold.

I embrace fear, will recognize when she begins to wrap around my throat, take over my words, my energy, me.

I embrace what I can’t control- like the rain on a day where it would be lovely to walk; I say to myself over and over, I don’t have to be in charge, and let this rain lead me instead.

I embrace the chaos- the chance to meet it with silence or more chaos, which I alone choose.

I embrace what unfolds next- a landing place we landed long ago or a journey.

I embrace needs and wants, the mundane, the ordinary.

I embrace the ebb and flow of being.

I embrace all those years of trying to embrace what doesn’t fit, trying to hold onto what stings, trying to mold liquid.

And I embrace letting go.

~ Kelly Sage- for the Poplar Grove Muse


Beauty and Memory

The “Holiday Season” is so laden with memories, for everyone, some good, some bad, many religious, many not. These days it is impossible to escape the Christmas marketing, but if one allows oneself to go back in memory, it is possible to recall simpler times, both good and not so much.

I remember sitting on my parents’ bed for hours in the weeks leading up to Christmas, poring over the Sears Wishbook, concocting an impossibly long list of desires, then whittling them down to something Santa might be able to deliver (while still allowing for the wishes of the many other deserving children awaiting his visit). I don’t remember many of these well-honed desires, except for one: my Budding Beauty Vanity—oops, I mean, my Hostess buffet.

I so wanted the “Marx Budding Beauty Vanity,” which the next-door-neighbor girl had; SHE had the Budding Beauty Vanity, with its plastic makeup and grooming tools (brush, comb, manicure set), jewelry, and toiletries, an inset lid that lifted up to reveal a discreet compartment for storing all the goodies, and a sculpted-tufted Styrofoam hassock that opened to store even more treasures.

I am pleased, now, that my parents didn’t cave to my unrealistic desire to become a “lovely lady” like the girl next door. Whether due to their sincere efforts to place less emphasis on external, superficial qualities and girly-girl pursuits in our home than what was going on next door, or whether they simply couldn’t acquire (or afford) the coveted, trendy Christmas request, I did not receive the Budding Beauty Vanity.

Their substitution of the “Little Hostess Buffet” was a lot of fun, too, with silvered plastic cutlery, candlesticks, napkin holders, and a 3-piece tea service, plus 4 place settings of plates, cups and saucers, and some molded plastic “crystal” fruit dishes and goblets. Along with a few bright pieces of plastic fruit. I’m sure my loving parents, whether by choice or of necessity, calculated that food preparation and presentation, while mostly (and still) the domain of the women of the houses, was an essential life skill to survival, both physical and social. It was certainly a domain of endeavor less predicated on a certain “skill set” of natural attributes than the budding beauty game.

My dad told me more recently that the buffet was a bitch to assemble in the middle of the night on Christmas Eve (a parental passage my husband and I made late one bitter December 24th in 1997 assembling our own firstborn’s kitchen set). I was recently astonished to locate the ad that had created and intensified my desire for this product on the internet, and to hear how the catchy tune and the shots of a little girl putting on her makeup and dabbing perfume alongside her mother’s grownup vanity, still catches in my memory, and my heart. The emulation of a distant, glamorous mother, the studied, gracious “salute” introducing an elegant set and the pampered world it suggests, the elusive promise of a transformation of self, all spring to life in my being once again. “A little girl, becomes a lovely lady with a vanity all her own….”

But this is really a reflection on memory, on how a long-ago, mostly forgotten, childhood desire, sparked by a crudely manipulative advertising campaign, can open a deep channel of recollection, bringing a whole world of feelings and experiences to life, leaving a middle-aged woman singing an old jingle for days while she quietly makes peace with a piece of her past.

Mary Peckham for The Poplar Grove MuseVanity

The Dance – December 14th, 2015

Rainmaking is a  weather modification ritual…Rain

Wind bends the almost brittle but not yet wintered Poplar.  Then, snap.  A stick splatter – an irregular display appears like a Jenga mistake across the black top drive.   My wheels maneuver around the tree log at the end of the road, it is dark.   Morning yogis arrive on a tenuous note; I can feel it in their breath before they pick up the pen.  Creatures of symmetry are broken by wind.   Today, yogis balance on only half of the body.  We sit uncomfortably unilateral and seek convergence of air – alternate nostril breath.  Four counts in one side, six counts of retention, and four counts the other.   Over and over – we bridge.  We seek balance, centering ourselves amidst the chaos – an invisible science only the soul and body know.  We sit and sirens wail with a frequency that says full moon.  We sit with sirens that shriek of a collective disaster…scream of times when our tides are pulled into the mass hysteric.

I drive.  I wonder if I can see less or somehow my eyes are not used to this unseasonal mist rising like the mystery around the Appalachian range.  Something of a thrill – a worry – a hate – a love…. it depends. How do we feel when things don’t go the way our lineage expects?   The barista tells me, she feels scattered.  Inside a four walled room, there’s no shelter.    Desert dwellers do not expect wet, rain means a miracle.   Rain means that the dance has been heard.   Once we were active in the conjure.   Who are those who remember the relation?    The worry of course, when the rain doesn’t come, is natural.    Its’ natural our ancestral heart quivers with transgenerational love as winter does not settle.  And unhibernated squirrels run in circles fat drunk with confusion.  Their madness makes us think:  has our tribe done something wrong, has our dance been quiet to the Gods?

Allison for The Poplar Grove Muse

Two Poems


Ruby red fancy pants
with your mask as shiny black
as a crow’s face
your crest as jaunty as Robin Hood’s hat
I watch for you daily
long for your rich color to flash
like an exotic jewel against this
gray-brown backdrop of winter

My mouth waters for
plump red raspberries
when you fluff out crimson feathers
against a brutal wind
when you sit quiet as a berry
round, luscious
midst barren branches
of sumac trees

And when you preen like a prince
on this crooked porch railing
and bury your beak in the depths
of your scarlet robe
my nose remembers plunging
into thick clumps of red roses
that climbed my mother’s
garden trellis a half century ago

When snow decorates the cedar tree
that grows through our porch deck
and spackles your gay apparel
with glitzy flakes
you whistle birdie, birdie, birdie
from that picture perfect setting
and I hear deck the halls
with boughs of holly
and imagine a red-berried sprig
in your clawed grasp
the word PEACE silver-glittered
in ever mounting snow



Snow Reverie

Midnight clouds dumped five
dense inches of white sugar magic
on every possible landing place—
it sweetens my ink and morning coffee
with unexpected delight.

Great clumps of heavy white snow lie
tangled in thick green tresses of cedar tree—
a three dimensional Christmas card
too big for any mailbox
except maybe God’s.

Snow tumbles from branches as
flitty birds land, take off
and land again.

Titmouse, chickadee, and nuthatch crack open
sunflower seeds on swinging wooden feeder.
Gold finches hang on sides of bulging white sock,
pull thistle seeds through tiny mesh holes.
Cardinal splashes into scene without warning,
like fresh blood on a new white dress—
brilliant and shocking.

Outdoor dog peers through picture window,
one ear up, one ear down,
head cocked sideways— “May I come in?”
always the optimist.

Parakeets twitter softly as if the snowfall
has shushed their usual morning chatter
and left them whispering dreams
of tropical forest sunshine.

Yellow cat on back of couch
rams his head against my head,
my neck, my shoulders—
no genteel lover is he!

Black cat stares from hooded eyes and couch arm,
“How can you possibly want to write,” she purrs,
“When I am so close by?”
Morning reverie interrupted—I give in
to petting and being petted.

—Glenda Breeden for The Poplar Grove Muse


Journey of a Lifetime

971356_10151994685177787_1591212917_nGoing home is never straightforward. It’s always an interesting journey, always a trail of memories.

Part of my journey to Connersville takes me across State Road 52, which runs east/ west through farm country in the center of our state. This July I drove past lush fields of soybeans and corn. This September I drove past soybean fields shaved down to brown stubble, and fields of corn where dust swirled behind giant John Deer Harvesters. Different landscape than I’ve become used to for sure, no rolling hills, or stone cuts along the sides of the highways.

I moved to Bloomington fifty years ago, where the landscape, both culturally and geographically, couldn’t be more different than where I was born. Driving alone for two and one half hours gives you time to think about the past. My childhood was a complicated one. The roads my mind travels down on this journey back in time are fraught with pitfalls.

They take me to loss and gain, change and status quo, past, present, and future.

But it’s not just about my journey anymore. Now another layer has been added to the memories.

On September 2, 2014 my goddaughter, Eva Rae Christopher Smalley, died in a car crash when she swerved to miss an animal that had dashed in front of her. I pass most of the landmarks of her life on State Road 52.

The first one I come to is The Community Church where over three thousand people attended her visitation, then comes the Lion’s Club in New Palestine where the wedding reception was held when she married, Mark Smalley, the loves of each of their lives. On the east side of New Palestine is Bittner Road that leads to her mother’s and her brother’s homes. Next is the road to her home west of Fountaintown. It’s where she and Mark made a home for Hannah and Addison, the daughters she so adored. Not far down the road is the Fountaintown Christian Church where she and Mark were married. By this time my heart is so heavy, I can hardly breathe. I grip the steering wheel and keep going, knowing it’s going to become harder because I’m approaching the junction of State Road 52 and State Road 9, the road she died on. I look to the left where she would have turned, only enough to make sure I can proceed through the 4-way-stop safely.

I try to breathe again, feel my fingers growing numb as their grip tightens on the steering wheel. The next town is Morristown, where she grew up. The road to the cemetery where she was buried with an afghan I had made her is off to the north. And, finally, on the east side of Morristown is the road that leads to her childhood home. As I pass that turn off, my heart begins to lighten and I remember the happy times I spent there with her mother, Sharon, my friend since I was five-years-old, her father, Chris, and her brother Sean.

I’m not one to deify people once they’re gone. Eva was not perfect, didn’t claim to be, but she radiated love. She was quirky and funny, made us all laugh at the most inappropriate times. She found joy everywhere. One of her favorite things in life was making a toilet sparkle.


She lived life to the fullest. She loved us all so hard. People who loudly claim they are Christian today and try to legislate us according to their agendas, should take a page from Eva’s book. She didn’t go around talking about what she believed a Christian should be. She lived it. She read her Bible everyday and distilled it all down to one basic rule. It was golden.

Rebekah Riebsomer Spivey for the Poplar Grove Muse

Photos Courtesy of the Smalley Family & Kim Webb

Life in the Fringe: Part I.

Raccoons 022 (3)

Almost 30 years ago, I moved into the area around Bloomington known as the “two-mile fringe”. It is an area that is not really a part of the city; we don’t pay city taxes. It is part of Monroe County, but we have some city services such as city water and electricity, and I live across the street from a school. We can’t vote in city elections, but pretty much our lives are the same as those of the city folks. My friends think I live in the sticks; I call it living in the country. I think I am particularly lucky, because I happen to abut an 80 or so acre farm which is in a trust: that means it can’t be sold to developers. I myself have 2 ½ acres, so I really don’t have any very near neighbors. As a result, I get to enjoy the good parts of living on a farm without having to do any of the work. There are stories to be told about this life…following are a few of them.

Whose house is this, anyhow?
My house is on the oldish side: It’s about 60 or so years old. A few winters ago, for the first time since I’d lived there, I had a family of house guests. Now, I’m used to hearing noises on my roof…things falling from the trees: limbs, leaves; squirrels taking a short cut from one field to another; mourning doves sadly bemoaning the fact that the bird food is on the ground and so is my cat; an owl in the night looking for the little field mice who like to take up fall residency in my kitchen; and chipmunks following the scurrying of the squirrels. As a result, I didn’t think very much about the noises that I started to hear on my roof that winter. There was a scrambling noise now and then, and a scuffle here and there. I thought the noises would soon stop. After a month or so, that hadn’t happened. I assumed that some squirrels had taken up residency in the attic, as they are wont to do in country homes, and thought I’d just wait them out. Surely they’d leave once warmer weather arrived, I reasoned.

Well, as you might have guessed, whoever was living in my attic probably was not a member of a reasoning species. The weather got warmer, and the noises didn’t stop. I had knocked on my ceiling with a broom handle to scare them out from time to time, but they continued to live it up at the Hartford Hotel. One day I went into the guest room, where I don’t go very often, and noticed some material on the floor that looked a little like sawdust. I looked up, and there was a hole in the ceiling!

I should explain that my house was built by a fellow who believed in recycling, and much of it is made of materials from other buildings and old places that were torn down. I have beautiful genuine pine paneling in three of the rooms, including the kitchen, which also has marble countertops, glass-doored cupboards from an old pharmacy, and other ‘pre-used’ features. It is what you would call a ‘funky’ house. It suits me perfectly.

The downside of this house is that some of the construction materials are not on the A-list of best choices. The ceilings are a good example. They are made of fiberboard ‘false’ panels, and thus provide wonderful chewing and nesting materials for attic residents, as I found out that winter. They had chewed right through the ceiling, leaving that mess on the floor—and it turned out that wasn’t the only place they had done so.

I wasn’t sure what to do, so I went to my source of all knowledge for living in the fringe, my neighbor Charlie (I will have several stories about him and his companion Sue before these accounts are done). Charlie promised to see what was what. However, Charlie is a busy person, so it took a while before he was able to check things out for me. In the meantime, I assumed the residents would leave once warmer weather arrived.

Warm weather did arrive, but the guests didn’t leave. One evening, as dusk fell, I heard a commotion on the roof of the screened porch off my living room. I went outside to see who was chittering, and there on the roof were three raccoons…two juniors and one senior…and they were having a family discussion. Unfortunately, it wasn’t about where they were going to move to…they had great digs right here in my attic, thank you very much.
So, not cute little squirrels as I had thought, but cute big raccoons, and they were destroying my ceiling!

Now, at this point, I have to admit to behaviors that probably encouraged this assumption that they were welcome. Again, it has to do with my funky house. The recycler who built it was a plumber by profession, and guess what else he recycled? Yep…including, the two home-built septic tanks. Yes, two…that’s another story. Anyhow, I don’t have a garbage disposal, and the plumbers who have to come to my house fairly often have all said I shouldn’t put one in. So the question arises: what to do with the garbage? I had come up with a great solution: feed the many critters who shared the 2 acres with me, get rid of the garbage, and we would all be happy. The coyotes and the possums and the stray cats all thought this was a great idea. So too, did the raccoons. In fact, the latter thought it was so good that surely it was an invitation to move right in, and so they did. They only needed to chew the ceiling to make a nice nest for the new babies about to arrive…plenty of room at my inn!

While I appreciate the fact that we are all creatures together on this earth, I think I need a little more space than I was allowed by this family living in my attic. So I called Charlie again. Sure enough, he had a ‘Havahart’ cage that might catch these guys. He came over one evening with it and with a cup of dog chow. He set up the trap, put in the dog food and left.

The next morning, while it was still dark, I got up and prepared my morning coffee (I’m a very early riser). I went out onto the porch to enjoy a little predawn caffeine, and ‘snap’!!! ….the cage closed. I went out to inspect it, and sure enough, there was a raccoon very unhappily scolding me and looking so woebegone that I felt sorry for it. Still, needs must. The clever plan had worked.

Where, oh where will my little guest go?

Since Charlie had been so kind as to supply the trap and the dog food, I decided not to bother him, but to relocate the arrestee myself. I was really thinking clearly at that point…I put a tarp in the back of my beloved car. Then I went to put the cage into the car. I found a jacket with long sleeves, and some really heavy work gloves because I didn’t want to chance any bites. Then I went to lift up the trap into the car. I had no idea how heavy a raccoon can be! It had to have weighed 30 pounds. Eating well at Chez Hartford had paid off, except, of course, that it couldn’t get out of the trap. I couldn’t lift it by the handle, and didn’t think lifting it by reaching through the wires for a grip was a good idea. What to do? Well, those of us who live alone often enjoy a good challenge for jobs that usually take two people or at least one stronger that we are.

I have learned, through other lifting situations, that props can help, and that gradual elevation can solve many problems. So, I found an old wooden box, about half as high as the opening to my car. I could lift the trap that high. I grabbed the handle, and up they went…raccoon and trap. The raccoon by now was really unhappy, and glaring threateningly at me. I smiled back. Now what? Nothing for it. I crawled into the back hatch part and reached down and pulled that thing in for the rest of the way. But there it was, between me and the opening…how to get out? I hadn’t folded the back seats down (clear thinking goes only so far), and so was trapped myself between the raccoon and the back seat. So, I lifted it out again, onto the box, crawled out (practicing some of that car vocabulary I’ve written about before), went to the side door and lowered the back seats. Then, into the hatch again, pulling up the cage again into the car. Out by the side door. Mission accomplished.

The next step was to take my captive somewhere to let it go. I live near Griffy Lake, and that seemed like it might be a nice new home. There would be fish to catch in the lake, garbage that the people who come there leave behind, and plenty of spaces away from homes that would be a nice range for a raccoon. So off we went towards the lake. We got to the landing where they rent canoes and stuff, but, unfortunately, it was a nice day, and there were a lot of people enjoying the ambience. I didn’t think I should spoil it for them by letting a raccoon loose in their midst, and, besides, I’m not exactly clear on what the law is regarding removing and transporting wildlife in this state . Maybe they’d call the rangers on me! So I pulled into the parking area, turned around and tried to decide where to go next.

In the meantime, I began to notice an unpleasant smell in the car. Of course, I hadn’t counted on what a terrified raccoon might do beyond trying to bite me. Putting that tarp down was really good thinking, I realized at that point.
I decided to drive down some of the country lanes out my way and to find a good place to let the animal go. Now, the last time I drove around these roads, I don’t remember seeing any houses at all. Suddenly, there were homes everywhere, no private, hidden places for me to pull over and get rid of my passenger. These houses were not new…they had been there all along, but when you’re not looking for a raccoon-release space, you don’t notice how close those homes really are. I drove down roads I hadn’t been on in years, and all that humanity just sat there, daring me to finish my job. Meanwhile, the smell was getting worse, even with the windows way down.

After about 45 minutes of driving, I finally found what seemed like a good, isolated spot where I could get rid of it. I pulled over, got out, hoping no cars would come cruising around, and opened the back hatch. Pulling the cage out to the ground was easier than putting it in the car. The raccoon was almost catatonic at this point, having used all of its resources up. I leaned over to open the cage. I could not get the thing open! I had never used one before, and it hadn’t occurred to me to ask Charlie how to open it…it hadn’t occurred to me that I would need to. I couldn’t stick my hand inside and pull up that way because there was still the danger of getting bitten. Sweat was pouring down my face and arms by this time because I still had on the long sleeved jacket and had put the gloves back on. I fiddled, and shook, and swore at that cage, and it still wouldn’t open…nothing, nothing, I tried released it. After about 20minutes of trying, I just gave up.

I couldn’t leave either the animal or the cage there, so I had to get the thing back into my car. I managed by crawling back into the hatch space again (I shook out the tarp first), and leaned over and pulled the cage back into the car. I was exhausted.

My only solution at this point was to head back home, Mr or Mrs Racoon still intact. I went directly to Charlie’s, hoping he’d be there, and have a solution for me. He came around the house from the milk barn, took one look at my pathetic, sweat-laden face; heard a noise in the back of the car and went to investigate. I was so tired I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Then I heard a loud laugh from the back of the car…Charlie was going to rescue me. Or the raccoon. I didn’t care which.

Indeed he did…and I will tell that part of the story another time.

Bev Hartford for The Poplar Grove Muse

It’s Not Mother’s Day. Still, in Gratitude.

Of the many things my mother did right -and there are many many right things in spite of some wrongs, was the way she never let a birthday, holiday, or life event pass without giving me another beautiful book in which to write it all down. Perhaps she knew I’d be less concerned with the poignancy of un-realized greatness lost in anonymous pages. Perhaps she knew that something good might come of blank pages, pencils and sketch books in my life; that if she played enough Bach and Bluegrass, Beatles, and Beethoven and simply got a great soundtrack going in the threadbare background of our lives those early years, we’d be vessels to carry the beauty of life she always felt the world could never have enough of. She let me run wild and was more than less around for the retelling of neighborhood tales at the end of the day. She insisted on a two hour afternoon nap most afternoons until I went off to school at 5. I was given a lot of space to be creative although I realize now, that space was essential for her as well.

Such a girl herself, I see my mother in bare feet, smoking, flicking ashes on the front stoop, the teenagers of the neighborhood coming to sit with her as she watched my siblings and me at 6, 7, 8 climb the downspout to the flat roof over the screened-in porch. The girl who was my mother passed along the great gift of her life- long girlishness, too.

Firefly jars, cut off shorts, footballs and hula-hoops, boxes of cast off dress-ups from all those 1950’s shotgun weddings, satin high heels, and cheerleader skirts. I can barely tell the story of my own girlhood without telling the story of hers. I wore her tap dance costumes, her spangled headdresses, I camped in her moldy childhood sleeping bag, wore her gray moth-eaten sweater when I was ten. The girl of me watched her hands run up and down piano keys, ran screaming from her cheerleader aspirations straight into the marching band, ran foot races, expanded on her fort designs, and learned to throw a perfect spiral football across a field. Under her benign neglect, I slammed screen doors, and stubbed toes. I tried her experiments: sandals out of musk melon rinds and string, brown sugar sandwiches, and submitted to the occasional recital or poetry contest thrown in there for more refinement and character-building.

BLR and Mom

My mother, Anne, shared a really good girlhood with me and taught me how to give my own girls their tomboy girlhoods and diaries too. She gave me privacy and a place for words, books and music and a safe backyard, where my best ideas grew in the mossy roots of trees…, my aimless humming in harmony with the cicada buzz, my sweetgrass skin alight, pliant, alive in its own fluid possibility.

Giving thanks for the gifts of my Motherline today.

Beth Lodge-Rigal for The Poplar Grove Muse

My Dog, My Teacher

This fall, sixteen women have embarked upon WWFaC’s 2015 Conscious Feminine Leadership Training. Speaking for myself, I seek to better understand, embody, and manifest the open-hearted, truth-telling, community-building principles of the conscious feminine in my world.

As a group, I can say that we are finding the journey transformative, as individuals, as women growing in our understanding of and capacity for leadership, and as members of a vast network of overlapping and far-reaching relationships. So many new ideas, new learnings, and new friendships are being discovered and developed within this spectacular, surprising group of seeking women.

Much of our reading has emphasized important characteristics of solid, healthy relationships—reciprocity, being able to both receive and give equally in our healing, sharing, caretaking relationships; remaining clear-, full- and open-hearted; telling the truth without judgement or blame; being radically present to ourselves and others; always bringing our authentic selves into interaction.

I have not been alone in pursuing new “laboratories” for exploring the workings of relationships. One friend, not even part of this training group, has had a recent breakthrough in deciding to use her toxic workplace as a personal laboratory for her renewed spiritual practices. However, since I have been spending a lot of time alone recently, reading, writing, chipping away at a backlog of small (and large) tasks that I haven’t been able to tackle for some months, my new “relationship laboratory” opportunity wasn’t immediately clear to me.

And then it dawned on me: Lupin, our new-within-the-last-few-months shelter dog, almost certainly abused, afraid of everything and hence a fierce barker at almost everything, and the fastest, most athletic dog I have known personally, is an ideal “lab” for me (he’s not a Lab). Just as I learned long ago with my toddlers, if I am not fully present to him, and he needs my attention, he starts to bite playfully at my hands, whine, ask for inappropriate attention, create minor mayhem if he can’t get me to notice any other way. Home together for long hours, our relationship, presumably one of master/mistress and pet, can bear my being barely present to him for only so long.

When I bring my full self to him, on the other hand, and we go out into the sun to play, and I throw the ball for him, he chases it joyfully, easily running past it to field it from the far side, and turns back to me in a big, graceful, looping arc to run past me, and field me from the other direction; my heart immediately soars, and I can’t imagine why I didn’t bring him out sooner, or let him bring me out, sooner, more often, more…. Whatever attention I turn toward him is returned to me in such full measure: walking, he calls my attention to so many little things, makes certain I notice every tiny moving creature anywhere in our vicinity; lying on the back edge of the sofa (he is that small, and can even sleep balancing up there, with limbs drooping down, but not interfering with his balance), he patiently waits, follows my every move with his eyes, always ready to meet any attention I offer with his radically present, infailingly authentic self. My dog, my friend, my teacher.

Mary Peckham for The Poplar Grove Muse