When your partner has a praise kink but you're Montessori trained so you know that praise is an ineffective way to encourage development and it's much more productive to acknowledge their effort so that they learn to effectively give themselves feedback so they can develop a healthy intrinsic motivation instead of deriving their self worth from labels put on them by other people .... "baby it's amazing how much you could last today compared to last week"

I picked up that tulip poplar blossom from the forest floor and put it on the old bridge so you could see all of this at once.

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tangled up in lust and exotic needs

l.m. montgomery, anne of windy poplars

Poplars, Claude Monet, 1891

Poplar, dir. by Valentyna Kostylyeva, 1996

— Poplar Street, Chen Chen

[text ID: Does your mother love you / all the time? Have you ever doubted?]

A closer look at the service tower at Balfron Tower, Poplar

Snake-Eyes Poplar

Anna De Weert (Belgian, 1867-1950), Les grands peupliers jaunes [Large Yellow Poplars], 1901-07. Oil on canvas, 130 x 80.5 cm.

"A roadside lined with Lombardy poplars." Trees as good citizens. 1922.

Internet Archive

Grovey Gold

Watercolor On Black Paper

2024, 8"x 10"

Aspen Leaves

Poplar Street

by Chen Chen

Oh. Sorry. Hello. Are you on your way to work, too? I was just taken aback by how you also have a briefcase, also small & brown. I was taken by how you seem, secretly, to love everything. Are you my new coworker? Oh. I see. No. Still, good to meet you. I’m trying out this thing where it’s good to meet people. Maybe, beyond briefcases, we have some things in common. I like jelly beans. I’m afraid of death. I’m afraid of farting, even around people I love. Do you think your mother loves you when you fart? Does your mother love you all the time? Have you ever doubted? I like that the street we’re on is named after a tree, when there are none, poplar or otherwise. I wonder if a tree has ever been named after a street, whether that worked out. If I were a street, I hope I’d get a good name, not Main or One-Way. One night I ran out of an apartment, down North Pleasant Street — it was soft & neighborly with pines & oaks, it felt too hopeful, after what happened. After my mother’s love became doubtful. After I told her I liked a boy & she wished I had never been born. After she said she was afraid of me, terrified I might infect my brothers with my abnormality. Sometimes, parents & children become the most common strangers. Eventually, a street appears where they can meet again. Or not. I’ve doubted my own love for my mother. I doubt. Do I have to forgive in order to love? Or do I have to love for forgiveness to even be possible? What do you think? I’m trying out this thing where questions about love & forgiveness are a form of work I’d rather not do alone. I’m trying to say, Let’s put our briefcases on our heads, in the sudden rain, & continue meeting as if we’ve just been given our names.

L.M. Montgomery, Anne of Windy Poplars