The Red Wheelbarrow
By William Carlos Williams
so much depends
upon
a red wheel
barrow
glazed with rain
water
beside the white
chickens
In my first year teaching high school creative writing in rural Ohio, maybe no other poem would provoke the 14-18 year olds more than “The Red Wheelbarrow.” It would actually INFURIATE them.
“I could have written this!” I’d often hear.
“But ya didn’t!” I’d quip back.
“OF COURSE this guy's name is William Carlos Williams. He can’t have just one William,” one tenth-grader added grumpily.
We’d stick with the short poem though. The students and I would read it aloud again and again. I love just inviting a poem in a room audibly. I’d read it; I’d invite them to read it multiple times in pairs.
We’d spend time with the poem’s imagery. The creative writing class and I would slow down even more with the poem. Pull out the vigorous verb glazed. Those chickens. The color red.
Eventually, we’d feel the poem – and feel the words in our mouths. We’d read Natalie Goldberg’s piece on the poem from Writing Down the Bones. The goal, really, was to just…enjoy the poem. (Goldberg’s urging.)
“What’d else’d he write?” would eventually get asked.
“Just wait ‘til you hear about the plums,” I’d mysteriously answer.
Eventually, we’d get to the question, why on earth does this poem matter? How can so much depend on…a red wheelbarrow?
What came through for the teenagers – and for me! – was the imperativeness to be attentive. To notice. To collect the small wonders of life. The red wheelbarrows, if you will.
I’ll admit that while at Westland lately, observing play yards and classrooms, I’ve been thinking of “The Red Wheelbarrow” and specifically Westland's wonders, small and large. I am reminded that the significant has a way of sometimes masking itself as insignificant.
At last Friday’s Sing I read aloud this poem, and I invited community members to share with me their “Westland red wheelbarrows.” One Group One parent wrote to me later that day: “Thanks for sharing the poem this morning. I’ve been thinking about ‘Westland’s wheelbarrow’ all day. I’m sure many people think immediately of the wood blocks, and of course so much depends upon them, but I was talking to another parent this morning about how wonderful the natural, real grass is on the yard. And sadly, how rare it is to see real grass! So I think my answer today would be the grass.” Yes! Of course: Leaves of grass. I think another poet would approve.
I’ve been collecting mine too.
Homemade Farmers Markets signs posted around campus.
A Group Fiver sharing the Chumash legend detailing a rainbow bridge whose fallen turned into dolphins.
A teacher passing out math problems: “The first thing you do is always the same, pick up your pencil and write your name” and a regrouper exclaiming: “Hey that rhymes!” The teacher’s response: “It does. I’m hoping you remember it.”
Group One’s first share at the Sing.
Geometric patches of pine needles on the blacktop, organized in an exquisite, symmetrical grid, left over from snack time.
And of course our own chickens, two of them: their daily afternoon nap on the front doormat of the office.
As a Group Six parent wrote to me following my invitation to point out Westland’s red wheelbarrows: “Community with a big C.” Yes, of course. Perhaps all of the figuring out what so much depends upon to us always leads to beloved Community.
All of this red wheelbarrowing has me forming an invitation. I invite us into the more regular habit of noticing. Being alert and wakeful – noticing – reminds me of Psychologist Dr. Albert Rossi’s explanation of finding a sense of present-mindedness and peace. His approach is threefold: through noticing nature, paying attention to breath, and practicing gratitude.
I realize all three of Rossi’s strategies are encompassed in Williams’s poem: nature, a moment of stillness, and a kind of gratitude that comes from paying attention. Nothing extraordinary happens in those sixteen words. A wheelbarrow sits in the rain. Two white chickens stand nearby. And yet…so much depends upon them. Maybe it’s our subsequent noticing that then becomes extraordinary.
And perhaps that's what gets at my newly formed learning about Westland, too. The extraordinary doesn't always announce itself. Sometimes it's tucked into an ordinary school day, waiting for someone to look closely enough.
And the more we notice, the more we discover just how much there is to appreciate, learn about, and even love.