Postscript

Abstract

In this postscript, the author explores what it means for her to live poetically in community. She begins by describing how she felt discouraged writing this book during the pandemic. Next, she explains how she coped with the unexpected loss of her best friend by writing poetry and creating a “constellation of memories,” a 3-dimensional arboreal mobile of words and images, as part of a musical celebration of his life. She discusses how these practices helped her process the emotions of a difficult loss and brought a community of people together to celebrate the life of a loved one. By reviewing literature about poetic inquiry and identity, the author considers how the practice of poetic inquiry can be a constant source of consolation, discovery, and renewal for teacher-scholars, as well as the members of the local–global communities in which we live and write.

There were times during the process of writing this book that I felt discouraged. I was fortunate to be granted a sabbatical during which I completed my proposal and the first draft of this book. I felt quite privileged to be able to focus full-time on my research and writing. When I returned to teaching, I found it difficult to find the time (and also the peace and quiet, in a department full of extroverts) to move the project forward. Although I love teaching, I looked forward to the following summer, when I would be able to devote myself exclusively to working on revising my first draft. And then the pandemic changed everything.

Anyone who teaches knows that 2020 was an exceptionally challenging year because we had to pivot to remote learning mid-year. Most of us had only minimal training in online teaching and learning. I had never taught online before, so I spent a great deal of time and energy learning to teach remotely at the same time that I was teaching my classes. I was exhausted just trying to keep my head above water. My hands ached and my eyes squinted from working on a tiny laptop. Needless to say, this book project was shelved. I told myself that I would get back to it as soon as the semester was over. Unfortunately, when I requested access to my office, where my materials and equipment for writing the book were located, I was told that my research was “nonessential” by an administrator (who had not earned a PhD and did not conduct research). I felt simultaneously livid and demoralized.

During this time, I tried to remain positive and focus on the bright side: At least this summer I wouldn’t have to work full-time without being paid! I took time to catch up on my pleasure reading and went for a bike ride every day. When it was safe to do so, I shared a meal and went for a walk in the woods with my best friend. I also enrolled in a boot camp for online instruction, so that I felt more prepared when fall semester rolled around and I was assigned to teach HyFlex classes (a hybrid of online and face-to-face instruction that offer flexibility in teaching during a pandemic).

And then one day my best friend, Stan, was diagnosed with stage 4 cancer. It was one of those situations when someone doesn’t know they have cancer until they fracture their spine in multiple places. Because he decided not to seek treatment, we knew that he only had a short time to live. I spent as much time with him as I could over the next six weeks, sharing in-home hospice duties with his family and friends when I didn’t have to be at work. I was physically and emotionally exhausted, but because we were not family members, I was not eligible for family leave. When he died, I was devastated. Working on my book was the furthest thing from my mind.

Some of Stan’s friends and I decided to organize a musical celebration of his life. I wrote a poem for him, but I wasn’t sure that I wanted to read it at the event because it did not have the celebratory tone that we were striving for. Still, I didn’t want to leave it in the drawer. I wanted to share it with others who loved him and felt unraveled by his loss. (See Fig. 6.1.)

Fig. 6.1

Poem: “Unraveled”

As I re-read the last line, “On that day, a constellation of starred memories will shine like fireflies in your mind’s eye,” it occurred to me that I could share my poem without having to read it aloud. I could embed it in a concrete representation of a constellation of memories of Stan. I remembered the concrete constellation poems that Schoone (2018, 2020) created in his poetic inquiry of alternative education tutors and Lapum et al.’s (2014) poetry and art installation. What if our community created an arboreal mobile of photos and written memories of Stan as a community art installation at the ceremony? We could print out small copies of our favorite photos of Stan, glue them on notecards and punch a hole on the top of the card. Then, we could affix glow-in-the-dark stars on the back of the card and tie the cards onto branches of a tree in the yard where we planned to hold the party.

At the base of the tree, we could place a small table with a pen and blank notecards that have punch holes at the top and glowing stars on the back. We could ask people to write down their favorite memory of Stan and hang it on the tree. While it’s still light out, people could walk around and look at the pictures and read the memories. After dark, the stars would glow like a constellation of fireflies in the branches. We could take a series of photos of the arboreal mobile from day to dusk to night. After the party, we could take down the photos and cards, print out the constellation photos, and put them in a scrapbook for Stan’s children to keep.

I felt so excited about this idea that I couldn’t wait to share it with my friends who were co-hosting the celebration. One of them told me that it was a beautiful and perfect idea that would invite people to pause at the entrance of the party. A beautiful and perfect idea. A 3-dimensional concrete constellation of words and images inspired by Adrian Schoone and Jennifer Lapum, who saved my poem from the drawer. (See Fig. 6.2.)

Fig. 6.2

Constellation of memories. [Photograph.] Source Michael Statler (2021). Used with permission

6.1 Living Poetically in Community

The story that I shared about creating the constellation of memories exemplifies for me what it means to live poetically in community. Poetic inquiry is not only a method for creating alternative representations of research findings; it is also a way of being in the world (Prendergast, 2009). Akin to Leggo, I view the practice of writing poetry, “as a way of knowing and living, a way of examining lived experiences by attending to issues of identity, relationship, and community” (Leggo, 2008, p. 171). As I struggled to cope with the loss of my best friend, I processed my emotions by writing poetry. Unsure of whether or not I wanted to share my poem in a public setting, I meditated on the idea of “a constellation of memories.” Recalling Schoone’s (2018, 2020) concrete constellation poems and Lapum et al.’s (2014) poetry and art installation, I visualized an arboreal mobile of words and images, a community art installation and concrete representation of a constellation of memories of Stan. My friends responded to my idea with affirmation and support. Practicing poetic inquiry enabled me to travel from the precipice of a black hole of loss and loneliness to the warmth and light of a communal constellation of memories.

Leggo (2008) wrote “Poetry begins with attentiveness, imagination, mystery, enchantment. Poetry invites researchers to experiment with language, to create, to know, to engage creatively and imaginatively with experience” (p. 168). When life is replete with positive experiences, it doesn’t take much effort to find the poetry in the beauty that surrounds us; however, when we face adversity, it can be difficult to find the frame of mind, as well as the time and energy, to be creative. It is precisely at these times we must be “vigilant about seeing the world with a poet’s senses and heart and imagination” (James, 2018, p. 30). Indeed, the act of engaging in poetic inquiry can help us gain a different perspective on our situation. As Sjollema and Yuen (2018) observed, “poetic representation has much to teach about reflexivity, reflection: It emphasizes researcher intuition and emotion, having patience with the recursive process” (p. 66). Clearly, the process of writing autobiographical poetry shapes our identities as poets and scholars (Clarke, 2014). When we share our poetic inquiry with members of our community, we also change the fabric of our community. My experience with the constellation of memories leads me to believe that poetic inquiry can be a source of discovery and renewal not only for teacher-scholars, but also for the local–global communities in which we live and write.