A beginner’s drawing class and a macramé workshop sounded fun until we began to do the work. My hands shook. An impulse to bolt (or sob or both) engulfed me. I can’t do this! Why did I sign up? Everyone else looks so competent.
 
But I clipped the translucent-skinned tracing paper between the silver-teeth of the easel’s binder and darkened it with charcoal marks. I strangled my cotton twine into knots.  
 
And kind teachers reassured me. And I struggled. And so did everyone else.
 
At breaks, I mentioned my initial fear to fellow students. One never looked at me again. One smiled and said me too and we laughed.
 
I know a potential friend when I see one.      

Think of it as suicide prevention and say hello to everyone who passes you by. Everyone. Even the creepy guy with the blue mirrored sun glasses. Even the trio of teens in hooded sweatshirts. Everyone. Wave to folks plugged into ear phones. And smile if you can.
 
It’s a risk to be sure. They may not notice you. They may think you’re crazy. But no matter their outcome, I guarantee you’ll feel better. And you’ll defer suicide for one more day – maybe for you, maybe for a fellow traveler.  

When some folks remodel or redecorate their home, their ordinary calm crumbles. So this sign (for sale) at an interior design store seems appropriate.  
 
“Your crazy is showing. You might want to tuck it back in.”

The right rabbit ear comes first, according to my first schoolteacher. So I looped and tugged and double-knotted and always needed to re-tie my shoes later in the day. Until my best friend’s son set me straight.
 
Now the left rabbit ear comes first. Then I loop and tug and the bow never loosens. Even without a double-knot. And the bow’s way cuter.
 
Sister Anne would be impressed.
    

I never paid much attention to nouns in my poetry. I tolerated their company on my rollercoaster verb ride but they always seemed to grip the handrail, never arching into the hysteria of letting go.
 
Until Mark Doty came to town.
 
This award-winning, master poet rankles so deeply and so accurately, I wanted to grip the handrail when he read his poems. He puttered uphill with a few stanzas and then bottomed out with a ruckus of stomach-lurching charm. I had to discover his secret.
 
So I deconstructed his poems, counting syllables, verbs, adjectives and nouns. One 15-line poem had 25 nouns and only 11 verbs and 11 adjectives. Nouns like ticks, microchip, brain, paradise, dreams, mosquitoes and appetite heaved and rustled in his poem.    
 
Nouns. A new place to park my amusement.