What if our experience could be categorized into 8 learning spirals? We learn every day. We learn through every aspect of our lives. The Writing Spiral is about 8 spirals. Inspired by Fibonacci’s golden spiral, the concept demonstrates ways we grow and change using the metaphor of a Fibonacci spiral. I decided to use the spirals to organize content on this blog.
This was a winter of dreaming. After the Christmas holidays and my trip to Grail Springs Wellness Retreat I felt a surge of creative energy. My newfound clarity needed to be captured. First I tried to make a vision board in a traditional way with magazines. Then I tried to use an infographic approach with a sharpie and a big piece of paper. Finally I decided to turn to technology.
Today I dream of summer. The sun on my face. The relaxed rhythm of the day. When I was a young teen I remember drifting on the Magnetewan River in a canoe reading for hours. I wrote this poem (inspired by Wallace Stevens) to capture the carefree feeling and the peaceful knowing of having nowhere to be but in a canoe with a great book on a gorgeous summer’s day.
It begins in the full breath before the first chord with a gentle invitation, an encouraging welcome to connect to the song’s essence, a wish to become an instrument.
A Poem Inspired by Learning Together
We tell a story about a mother who is seventy-four
and a daughter who is forty-nine,
adding up time and
along the line between them.
We share an open array of numbers,
imagining parts and wholes,
our strategies exposed by quantities
of numbers decomposing and
constant relationships in our minds
–before even holding a pencil.
Hand over heart we tap
until we see a place
in a string of familiar anchors
and friendly landmarks.
We can count back to see the value, partial
products of flexibility now.
Voices of facts and concepts
and ways to solve
burst with numerate enthusiasm
and joy, seeing how the teacher
draws our thoughts
together on a whiteboard.
We gasp at its simple magnitude.
Today was an ideal Sunday for going to the beach with my camera.
My parents live close to where the Parry Sound 33 Fire started this summer.
moss clings to my
spaces toured by ants and even
Motionless days pass
solid and sound in all seasons,
even this one, until my senses blistered.
Organized signals for help
unseen as my sedentary
service in subterranean
bass tones even
eluded that fir and birch and spruce and pine
who once stood beside me night and day.
Knowing boots rested on my back, even as I slept
as choked branches lay across my face, as I ate
soaked dreams drank my lineage
hardening the horizon–
Even until smouldering spells
struck nine and I waited to exhale.