Last week, I performed The Sensory Circus of Small Wonders at Schreiber Pediatric. I’ve visited there for several years now to perform, but this time was different — a softer, more surprising experience built around sensory play, movement, and imagination. I designed it with accessibility in mind, to welcome people with varied learning styles, as well as anyone who thrives in sensory-friendly, creative spaces.
Together, we explored a world where feathers drifted, scarves floated, and sounds happened gently around you instead of at you. It was one of those rare moments where the world narrows in the best way. Where connection doesn’t need to be loud.
Honestly, I think I designed it for myself, too.
It was a circus of wonder made by everyone in the room.
Meanwhile, the Foolbright Scholars are back at work on a new show. And as one of the scholars with credentials that are certainly enthusiastic if not exactly verifiable, I can say with complete authority that this is Very Very Important Work. I spent time in West Philly over the weekend devising with my pal Chris, soaking in the neighborhood art, admiring the fruit trees neighbors plant to share, and jumping when a rat rustled through some recycling.
Have you ever been to Bindlestiff Books? You should go. And get takeout from Mood Café while you’re at it.
What about the Little Free Library Storytimes, you ask?
Well. The first one was rained out.
This month, I planned for sun. Walked to the park. Waited.
One adult showed up. He was “walking off a big lunch” when he stumbled upon me, sitting on a bench in bear ears and a birthday party hat. No children. Just the two of us.
And so we went ahead. He wanted to hear the story. I read aloud. Did all the voices. Turned each page like it mattered. Because it did.
There’s something strangely beautiful about offering everything you’ve prepared, even when the “room” isn’t full. Maybe especially then.* He was such a generous audience. So open.
I’ve been writing poems. And reading them.
Writing them feels like making a map I can't carry.
Reading them feels like finding a map someone else made and wandering through its territory for a while.
The most recent collection I've read is This Costly Season, a crown of sonnets by John Okrent. You can find it at Arrowsmith Press. The collection made me grateful for the moments of connection I've been able to have lately, but also aware that we’re still in a costly season, in so many ways.
That’s my brief update.
None of it is particularly glamorous. Much of it has been quiet.
But there’s movement under the quiet, something forming that says, “Keep going. This matters. Even now. Especially now.”
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* Footnote Memory: After my first book of poems came out, I was scheduled to give a reading at a local bookstore on September 13, 2001. No one showed up. Understandably, given the events of two days earlier.
I waited anyway, with my young daughter beside me. And then a woman came in. She said, “God sent me.” What do you do when someone says that? You read your poems.
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