Learning from Ada Limón

An invitation to play

Welcome to Pocketful of Prose. April is National Poetry Month, and because I’m an eleventh hour kinda gal, I’ve decided to bring this to your attention on the last day of the month. This week I’m sharing what I learned in a poetry workshop taught by Ada Limón, the 24^th US Poet Laureate. Because it’s me, I’ll share how I’m applying what Ada says about writing to well, just about everything. Pocketful of Prose is free for everyone. Please share with your friends. If you find yourself falling in love with the pockets like I did with Ada and her writing, you might want to consider becoming a paid subscriber.

Without further ado, today’s pocket…

I first fell in love with Ada Limón where I have fallen in love many times in my life, listening to On Being with Krista Tippett. For those of you who are die hard On Being followers, I mean fans, like me and Ada, you know Krista went away for a while, and it was sad. Then, she came back, and it was even better than when Trader Joe’s brought back their dairy-free cherry chocolate chip ice cream, after discontinuing it for reasons no one who had ever eaten it could conceive. They have since discontinued it again, but let’s not even go there.

When Krista interviewed Ada in February, I was going through a spell of sleepless nights. This happens to me when I get really excited about things. The thing I was excited about at the time, honest truth, was starting this Substack. For a while every night was like Christmas Eve, and I would wake up at 3 am wondering if I could get up and open presents yet. This might be the real reason I never taught my kids to believe in Santa Claus. A spell of sleepless nights sounds romantic, but there are not a lot of benefits to being wide awake at three in the morning. It is actually pretty awful. The only upside was that I listened to some really good podcasts, like Nate DiMeo’s The Memory Palace. His voice is surprisingly soothing, even when he’s talking about the Vietnam draft.

Ada’s most recent book. It doesn’t disappoint. You can purchase here.

So I discovered Ada Limón at three am this past February after she had been named the 24^th Poet Laureate of the United States, after she had already become famous, or whatever equivalent of famous exists in the world of poetry. Ada wrote her first book in 2006.  So, I’m not exactly a trend setter here. I’ve never really been a trend setter. Don’t get me wrong, I definitely nerd out over things like everyone else, I’m just sometimes a decade behind on what I’m nerding out over. Case in point, I’m just discovering Spotify.  I am rocking my overalls right on time now, but that’s only because I’ve been wearing them for the past thirty years. I guess sometimes I’m a little late to the party. I prefer to think of myself as a late bloomer.

Speaking of late bloomers, check out this amaryllis, which bloomed after a year and a half of sitting dormant on the windowsill. It was also purchased from the Trader Joe’s.

In March, my friend Andrea shared one of Ada’s poems with me.  I had just written a post about grieving and gardening, and as Andrea was gathering poems for the library’s April’s poetry display, to share before the first of the month (I envy those organizational skills), she came across Ada’s poem “Instructions On Not Giving Up.”

“It’s the greening of the trees that really gets to me…a green skin growing over whatever winter did to us, a return to the strange idea of continuous living despite the mess of us, the hurt, the empty.”

Has anyone ever gifted you a poem? Either one they have written or one they have chosen just for you because they think that like Nate’s DiMeo’s voice, it might be surprisingly soothing or instructive. They think perhaps it might work better than a hug, or perhaps they share it because at that moment, they can’t give you a hug. So they share the next best thing.  When someone gives you a poem that fits like your favorite pair of thirty-year-old overalls, you feel seen.

I thanked Andrea for the poem and shared with her that Ada would be visiting our city soon, teaching a poetry workshop at Spokane’s Get Lit Festival, and I couldn’t wait. I had signed up for the mailing list as soon as I saw Ada’s name on the docket. I was eagerly anticipating them selling tickets for the event. Andrea, again being more tethered to actual time and space than myself, wrote me back immediately and informed me that they had in fact already started selling tickets. (This might be the downside to having a Gmail account that is 97% full.) I bought my ticket before I had finished reading Andrea’s text and texted her back so she could do the same. She wrote me back and said, “You must have gotten the last ticket,” as when she tried just a few minutes later, they were sold out. Amazingly, we are still friends.

So I’ve been looking forward to Ada’s workshop, since the day I ripped the ticket out of Andrea’s poem loving hands. I was giddy over it, not about stealing the last ticket, that wasn’t great, but the opportunity itself…to learn from Ada. I tell my co-workers the morning before the workshop that I should probably lower my expectations. My best friend and I developed a theory when we were 13, in regard to expectations and disappointment, and this theory has served me pretty well in life. It is simply this, when your expectations are high, prepare yourself to be disappointed. Granted, we were 13, and our theory mostly applied to Kenny asking us to dance, or rather to move alongside him, to “Everybody Dance Now,” in the middle school gymnasium. The theory, though, has held up surprisingly well. I avoid expensive restaurants for this reason. I think if they are going to charge that much for food, then it must be other worldly, and it usually never is. Neato Burrito, on the other hand, our local burrito place, where I can get fresh salsa, fried tofu, black beans and cilantro inside a tortilla in less than ten minutes for under ten bucks, never disappoints.

So I know I should ratchet down my enthusiasm for Ada, but I just can’t. To give you an idea of how excited I was, I will share that this week, my students and I are going to see Trevor Noah. You may have heard of him.

Our multi-cultural book club read Born a Crime during the pandemic. It was powerful and hilarious. Andrea and I, mostly Andrea, that probably goes without saying, wrote a grant for books for our book club, and then I, I do have some skills, convinced the generous grant donors that in addition to books perhaps they would also allow our students to partake in a field trip to see Trevor perform. After a few reassurances that I would get the students home alive and unscarred, they said yes. We could go see Trevor perform his comedy. The kids are over the moon about it, and don’t get me wrong, so am I, just not as over the moon as I am about the prospect of learning how to write a poem from Ada Limón.

I have had several disappointing encounters with famous people in the past. Actually, most all of those encounters have been a case of reality coming nowhere close to expectations. To be fair, some of those people were pretty terrible. One was a politician who cheated on his wife while she was dying of cancer. But even the encounters with folks whose books I have cherished and learned so much from, have been a little lukewarm at best.

But with Ada I’m hopeful it will be different, because it’s not just about her writing, it’s about how she looks at the world. How I would have loved to have a conversation with Mary Oliver. What a gift it is that I get to have one with Ada Limón. Also, maybe it’s a little bit about her writing. “Fine then, I’ll take it, the tree seems to say, a new slick leaf unfurling like a fist to an open palm, “I’ll take it all.”

actual rainbow spanning our city two day’s after Ada’s workshop

Participating in Ada’s workshop is kind of like a rainbow spanning the city. It’s just as magical as you think it would be. Ada is so lovely, even more so than I imagined. She has an infectious, loud, generous laugh that fills the room. She tells us the world is both serious and hilarious.

She shares how as Poet Laureate, she finds herself so busy, and she is so grateful for the experience and the honor, but sometimes she is so busy, she doesn’t write. I know this feeling. What it’s like to be too busy (parenting, teaching, fill in your blank) fulfilling the duties of the thing, that you forget the thing a little. Ada reminds us, “the thing is what it’s all about.” She is excited to be with us because together we are going to be in the thing, the practice of writing. She is genuinely seeking to be fully present, and that makes her presence a gift.

We spend two hours with her in writing workshop playing together with words. This is her gift to us. This concept of play. To trust that the words will come, if you keep showing up, and to have a little fun.

I know we can’t play and be fully present all the time, but I want to be in the thing more of the time. I know my best teaching is when I write and read alongside my students. I know my best parenting is when I’m playing with my kids. I know my best partnership is when my husband and I laugh with each other. But the duties of the thing, sometimes pull us in the wrong direction, they pull us away from the actual thing, and we have to find our way back.

Ada Limón’s workshop is magic because for two hours she invites us to be in the thing with her. We are not worried about what has come before, or what is coming later. We are writing and sharing poems here and now.

Ada says that one of her teachers Sharon Old’s says that the ending is in the beginning. To end a piece sometimes all you need to do is go back to the beginning and it’s there.

I first fell in love with Ada Limón during a spell of sleepless nights. I fell in love with her again last Friday when she invited me to play. I wouldn’t trade the experience for anything, not even Trader Joe’s cherry chocolate chip ice cream.

This week I’m trying something new in the comments. In the classroom, I find that I have to start slowly to build community and foster good conversation. I pose some lighter questions and then we build up to deeper topics. So I’m going to encourage us to play by throwing out a lighter question. When I was having a rough day, I asked Andrea to recommend some funny shows. Andrea’s recommendations are gold, and you can check them out here. Andrea suggested I check out Sheng Wang’s comedy special on Netflix Sweet and Juicy. He does a bit where he talks about self-care and using body lotion, and how you can never get all the lotion from the bottle and it’s a bit exasperating. You end up opening the top and lathering yourself with the lotion stick, and it’s all a bit humiliating. I again felt seen. I often get about three fourths into a bottle of body lotion when the pump no longer seems to work. I can’t bear to throw the bottle out because it hasn’t all been used yet, but because the pump no longer works everything becomes kind of a hot mess. It reminds me of how my grandparents used to take the old bar of soap and attach it to a new bar of soap so as not to waste it. Maybe you can relate.

What resonates with you? What made you laugh this week? When did you feel seen? Did you find time to play?

Below is a poem that I wrote this week based off one of Ada’s prompts. I’m so grateful for good teachers.

actual tulip in my welcoming April garden

Hospitality

In late April, I walk into the sunny cold morning

and it feels like someone has taken a paintbrush 

to everything

a palette of purple, yellow, green, oh so much green

My nephew and my mother play I spy with cherry blossoms

“Pink alert, pink alert, white alert”

The world feels completely new

almost as if it wasn’t here yesterday

and today is the day color was born 

But I know this is not true

That what I’m seeing this morning was months and months in the making

Behind the scenes work

performed by the tiniest artists

Bacteria, amoebas, fungi

Nematodes, springtails, water bears

whisper to each other while they work

Cleaning house

Sweeping out the debris

Transforming loss into life

Making a home that is hospitable and generous

To meet what is to come

To greet what is to come

In late April, I walk into the sunny cold morning

and it feels like someone has taken a paintbrush 

to everything

But I know this is not true

Every gift of Spring

begins with millions of microbes working beneath frozen, hard ground

Every blossom

is born of a conversation between things we cannot see

Every splash of color

comes from cooperation and consistent toil

In late April, I walk into the sunny cold morning

a mat of grasses and dandelions beneath my feet

The tulips set a place at their table

Every blossom on every bough beckons

Welcome home