Tag: Writing Teacher

100 Word Challenge…Part 3

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This afternoon my school held a talent show and I found myself overwhelmed with emotion. The talent was without a doubt stunning, as you would expect. Yet, I was in awe of my kids for a different reason. I witnessed young people who were courageous enough to get up in front of the entire student body and share something of themselves…something that holds personal meaning and weight…that maybe they don’t reveal everyday. That show provided a living and breathing reminder that we all have a gift worth sharing…if only we can get out of our own way.

(Day 46–long day apparently equals short blog? But it is honest and marks the one thing that I found most remarkable in my day (thought there is probably more to say about it…I suppose that will have to be enough to count for today’s writing…well, it’ll have to anyway;) )

sermonizing

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Every so often on a Monday, I have the opportunity to address my entire high school student body. I take that privilege seriously and use it as an opportunity to find new ways to remind my kids that we are in fact a community rather than some cold institution and as such each member has a responsibility to be a decent and kind human being. Without that standard being upheld, we devolve into just a building with people working side by side rather than together…without that, we lose our heartbeat, and the vibrance of who we have always intended to be as a school withers.

We are a small school, so these moments of sermonizing are rather cozy occasions–no microphone needed, just me talking and interacting with 120 kids seated side by side on the floor in front of me. Part of me recognizes that I have usurped a time typically reserved for announcements simply to yield an extra opportunity to teach now that my new position has reduced my class load. (But I am okay with this) I have taught at this high school since the second year of its existence when it only consisted of two grades, 9th and 10th…when I was the English department…when we were only 20 students big. In those early days, it was evident that there was something special about this school we called home…a school where learning for learning’s sake was embraced before grades and test scores…where the operating principle of “be kind, be kind, be kind” centered us everyday…where we were as much a family as a student and faculty body…where cliques were shunned and acceptance of all, required. Most importantly…acceptance of all. Every single kid, no matter their uniqueness was accepted for exactly who they were in that moment and they were given the grace to change as they grew over time. It wasn’t perfect all the time, but it felt ideal at its core.

As we have grown in size, slowly but steadily, it would be easy to move farther away from that beginning…to rise far enough above the core that we forget it is our foundation.

I can’t let that happen.

I have poured too much into this place and I treasure our first few classes of kids who knew this and embodied this and, truly created this bedrock, to walk away from it or to cheat it in any way. Honestly, the main reason I applied to be Head of the High School (having had zero inclination toward administration before) was to preserve the heartbeat of this school…to make sure a stranger didn’t arrive who might not get it…who might unwittingly stray from our purpose and who we are meant to be.

So, here I am. Stealing time on a Monday to reinforce these values in myriad ways. This week, we spoke about judgement…about how what we see of others is sometimes the eighth layer of the wall they have built in order to protect who they really are from being hurt…about how instead of judging others and walking away, maybe we could ask some questions to grind away the layers…about how we can extend each other some grace because sometimes life is hard and a little compassion goes a long way…about how it is not our job to judge, but that it is our job to love, to accept, to uplift the members of our community.

Did they hear any of this? Hard to say, really. But if even one kid walked away with new understanding and with the ambition to act on it, then I’ve done okay…then, the example will be set and spread…then, the time was well spent…then, our little school will continue to strive toward being the community of learners we were created to be, to become.

And hopefully, the tiny community will begin to influence the community at large. Teenagers are pretty remarkable humans. If anyone can begin to change this world for the better, it is them.

(Day 45–I still cannot believe there have been this many daily blogs in a row…two weeks away from king cake!! I cannot wait!!)

empowerment

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Words, language, have become a means of survival.

Air, water, food, shelter, words. Sincerely, their necessity has reached this level.

The easy answer here in uncovering the meaning behind this dramatic assertion is that books have saved me…allowed me an escape…or that writing has…but it isn’t that simple or that obvious, because for a long time, when I was sick and dizzy, reading and writing were not the friendliest options. However, there are realizations in life that shine a light to burn off the fog that has settled in around you…the fog that hinders your vision…not allowing you to see anything else until you recognize first the truth of what has blinded you. Sometimes you get lost and can’t see up from down or details of the world around you.  Then the moment arrives when understanding clarifies the rest and the fog becomes mist which becomes transparency.

So, I have come to learn that when my language portrays victimization (whether resulting from life long struggles with anxiety or my more recent struggles with inner ear disability), that I sink swiftly into a self induced chasm of resignation. When my language falters under the weight of whatever ordeal I am suffering, I surrender any power or control I have in the situation and I become nothing more than a sacrifice to my circumstances. However, when I shift the syntax…when I choose words that reflect the strength of a survivor…suddenly, I repossess my strength, my courage, my vibrance. When I look at a situation through the lens of accomplishment rather than through the fog of defeat, it may not change my circumstances, but it certainly alters my perception of them. This isn’t simple stuff. The words, this “survivor speak” may feel hollow at first…futile, for they are just words after all. Eventually, with diligence, the moment arrives when they aren’t just words any more because what once felt empty has not only  become your reality, but transformed your experience of it.

In the same way that words can be employed to tear down and demean or to reconstruct and elevate others in our lives, they can be engaged the same way in our own.

an exercise in brevity

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We woke up to a bit of a thunderstorm this morning and immediately I remembered Jean Toomer’s “Storm Ending”. The thunder wasn’t so voluminous as to warrant lines like “Thunder blossoms gorgeously above our heads,/Great, hollow, bell-like flowers,/Rumbling in the wind,” yet these words fluttered through my mind nonetheless, bringing calm and a slight smile.

It takes a deft hand and careful imagery to allow for beauty in the clatter that has frightened me since childhood, yet here, he has written thunder so perfectly that I’ve reconsidered its possibilities. Brushstrokes of poetry can retrain our vision, reset our judgement, reveal the truth beyond the scope of our sight…reminding us that while our perception of the world becomes our reality, it isn’t necessarily everyone’s reality. Reminding us that seeing beyond our ego, beyond our singular experience is the only way to truly absorb the vivacity of the world we live in. Reminding us that in any given situation, there are possibilities beyond what our perspective allows us to realize. Reminding us that with a small shift in understanding, things can look completely different. Reminding us that in this life, beauty can be found in the noisy, in the frightening, in the unexpected.

(Day 38…is this cheating? perhaps…but also, I had this moment, and this is all I really had to say about it…I say it counts!)

 

what next?

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Well, it is another one of those nights. A night where I have crafted lovely little plums of writing–literally three different pieces, but not a single one of them is traveling the path I hoped it might. So, instead of enjoying the freedom of publication, they’ve been caged in the prison of saved drafts. Were I not in the midst of this writing challenge, this would simply translate to a great night of writing and thinking and wondering and playing with the arrangement of words on the page. It would translate to a wealth of strong beginnings on topics I am excited to revisit…to revise…to reclaim.  However, tonight, on day 37, I am fatigued, have no finished work and have reached the point where I feel done with writing for the night, only to commence writing a new piece, this piece, (where I find myself whining about having nothing completed) simply because I have to publish something. Because that was the deal. Because I owe it to myself to uphold the challenge with so few days to go. Because, well, king cake on Mardi Gras Day…really, there isn’t much more to say than that (let me reiterate at this point how hard this challenge has been…not the writing necessarily, but the not eating king cake!! My sister sent one of my kids this immense king cake donut filled with cinnamon cream cheese filling. This confection typically would have tempted  me to stray from the realm of the gluten free just for a quick taste. But I refrained. I haven’t earned it yet. My job is not yet complete).

But, in all of this meandering, I’ve begun to piece together a writing plan for after my challenge draws to a close on Mardi Gras day. I’ve been wondering for a while not, what happens after the king cake is consumed? I think my plan going forward will still center around writing everyday…but with eyes on publishing only once a week. This is probably what this challenge should have been all along, but in order to get to that point, I needed the accountability of a daily public display of my work. The discipline is in place now, and I am sincerely longing for days when I can work on a piece that I enjoy without having to bring it to some kind of quick or cluttered conclusion before it is fully ready simply so I can click publish. I have missed the ability to linger over a piece and to really select my words, to craft my point, to enjoy the process. Entrenching myself in the discipline of this particular work hasn’t fueled my love of writing, though it has made me a better writer. It has also gifted me with the awareness that I do, in fact, have the time to write everyday. Because, as in all things, we make time for the things that are most important to us.

Were I a little less brain dead, I would have woven the following poetry links into the work a bit more seamlessly and embellished and extended the ideas expressed in each. But that is not where I am and I refuse to withhold poetry from you simply because I can’t arrange it as I would like. As I was writing this piece and I mentioned feeling caged or freed in varying places, the following poems came to mind…

“The Heart of a Woman” By Georgia Douglas Johnson

“Sonnet (1979)” By Elizabeth Bishop (I’m not going to lie, the imagery and metaphor in this poem overwhelms me with every read. I have no idea why I connect to it so deeply, but I love how it makes my brain work and my mind and soul feel…and isn’t that the point of poetry on some level?)

“Caged Bird” by Maya Angelou

(Day 37…a bit of a disjointed mess for sure, but the writing that preceded it only to not be published was worth it)

patience (a second look)

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Missing:

the ability to sit still, to wait (with grace), to wonder in the waiting.

~~~~~~~~~~

Patience has fallen out of practice and become nearly obsolete. Technology grants us immediacy. I don’t deny the benefits of this, of course, but the drawbacks are also undeniable.

Answers to just about every conceivable question reside only a Google search away, we can mobile order coffee or fast food to shrink our wait time. No need to wait until the morning newspaper or the evening news, when notifications pop up on the screen in our hands with obtrusive regularity, a competition to get the story out first, even at the sacrifice for getting the story out accurately. No need to wait until the next week to see what happens next in our favorite shows, when entire seasons are available for consumption in a single binge ridden viewing. The people in our lives are just a quick text message away, and when the blinking dots don’t pop up immediately, we wonder what is wrong, or worse…we get angry and defensive, instead of considering that it was us who intruded into their moment, into their attempt to live into their own lives and that a response might take time. In the same way, we feel the need to reply to incoming messages instantaneously–our swiftness, at times, leading to abbreviation and single letter responses…a halting cadence that surrenders the inhale and exhale of conversation.

These options, in bringing ease to our lives, make us comfortable and lull us into believing everything requires expediency…that we should be living our lives at a faster pace…that if we aren’t moving quickly, moreso than those around us, then we most certainly must be falling behind. We move about our days and nights at a frantic pace because we have created a world that is impossible to keep up with…a world that denies the worth of pausing to breathe…a world that admires accomplishment despite the cost.

But when we slow down, the world becomes a different place, if for no other reason than we have taken the time to see and hear it…in detail, rather than in the superficial assumptions of the blur of sight and sound that appear in the rush. When we sit patiently and talk with someone, when we engage face to face, and when we listen as they speak, when we witness the emotion on their face and hear the tone in their voice rather than simply noting an emoji, something deeper happens. Suddenly a stranger’s distance isn’t so far, suddenly the commonality of the human experience reveals itself. When we take the time to explore issues beyond the headlines and social media posts that feed our sort of selfish ambitions to be right, when we seek truth rather than confirmation, the human beings that people these issues come to life. Suddenly, because we slowed down, the single story becomes many, layered. Suddenly, because we slowed down, the simple becomes complex. Suddenly, because we slowed down, our world view shifts even if only slightly.

When we get out of our own way, when we stop to see the truth that swirls around each of us, when we finally notice the beauty surrounding us, empathy flourishes…when that happens, the waiting will have been worth it.

(Day 36–a bit revision and extension–not perfect, but still working on it)

A rough start

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(The following is the start…a very rough one as the title implies…of a piece I am working on. It’s been a long day and as midnight nears, I know I can’t do this topic justice this evening. Planning to polish and complete it tomorrow. Just didn’t want to miss a day of writing and given that I’m writing about patience, I think that being patient and working my way through this one exemplifies my point.)

—————————————————————–

Missing:

the ability to sit still, to wait (with grace), to wonder in the waiting.

Patience has fallen out of practice and become nearly obsolete. Technology grants us immediacy. Answers to just about every conceivable question reside just a google search away, we can mobile order coffee or fast food to lessen the wait time, packages can be ordered and delivered overnight, if desired. And these options, in bringing ease to our life, make us comfortable and lull us into believing everything requires swiftness…that we should be living our lives at a faster pace…that if we aren’t moving quickly, moreso than those around us, then we are falling behind.

(Day 35–almost didn’t happen. Grateful for just a little perseverance to get even just a little writing in!)

magic

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There’s a magic that happens when a baby enters the world. An enchantment stirs inside of the hearts of those who, for months, have been anxiously awaiting the moment that tiny new life would pronounce its presence in person.

What never seems to allow itself into definition or explanation is that the depth of that love grows as the child does. I tell my kiddos everyday that, without fail, every time I think it is impossible to love them more, something inside of me stretches to lend a bit of extra space. And that is a true statement.

Today is one of those days. One of my boys turned ten (double digits…how?!) and the other opened with a leading role in the school play today. As I watch these boys grow into the world shaping the humans they will become, it is pure joy to witness the avenues they travel while seeking their passions. Whether soccer or the stage, watching each in his element swells my heart a bit more.

Not sure what I’ve ever done that warrants the treasure of these children, but it is one that I cherish and honor (even when it isn’t like tonight…even when it is hard…even when there is attitude…because that is all part of the job). And this job pays richly.

(Day 34!! It’s short and down to the wire but still got it in!)

reminiscent

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A couple of years ago, I attended the Heinemann literacy retreat in Boothbay Harbor, Maine. We spent mornings in this idyllic environment filling pages of writers notebooks while working with Linda Rief. Really, those mornings earned and own space as beloved moments of time–moments that could never endure a precise recreation, for I will never be exactly as I was then. Yet, they live on inside of me nonetheless.

On one of those brilliant Maine mornings, I wrote the following piece. I’m not sure what made me think of it today, but suddenly I found myself possessed with the desire to seek out my notebook from that week and find this particular piece…and maybe nudge it and rework it a bit. A response to Katrina and the loss my family suffered in her fury, this piece testifies, I think, that even though lives move on and we find healing, solace, old wounds still open up every now and again, proving painful with their sting.

My mom and dad and sister and brother will probably read this piece and I worry that it will be too much (so maybe, stop reading here you guys…or if you continue, don’t say I didn’t warn you!). But I also don’t want to leave these thoughts out of the record of my heart, my life.

~~~~~~~~~

The table that got carried away by the flood knew stories, so it knew lives. Knew my childhood. My family–all of them: those that came before me, those that sat around it with me, whether for many years or for fewer than felt fair. It knew projects and homework and it knew me–the tiniest in the house charged with dusting its belly and legs—a job to keep little hands occupied and little me out of the way (that is until I deserted its secret dusty crevices in exchange for the tedium of picking parsley leaves in the kitchen).

It knew warmth. The center of our gathered hearts as we shared a meal, exchanged communion in conversation, offered up wishes of Thanksgiving or Merry Christmas or Happy Birthday or Congratulations–our most precious occasions. And it celebrated with us. Holding up our joy, taking in our laughter (or our tears), relishing it all. A bounty of food could only further adorn its beauty, a bounty of love surrounding it, effervescent. It became a touchstone, a symbol for family, for togetherness.

The table that got carried away by the flood also knew discord (all families really do). It stood strong in the midst of disagreements, teenage angst, parental concern…endured the occasion frustrated fist hammering down in order to punctuate a point…and it reverberated the echo as if in agreement. It knew grief too and absorbed the weight of loss as we attempted to endure and learn to live again.

But the saltwater of those tears could not prepare it for the deluge to come, for the sacrificial offering it would become. The table had withstood floodwaters before (though they merely tickled its toes), so it had remained confidently behind…on guard so to speak for all the life that house contained even with its people huddled together in some other house, in some other city just distant enough to escape danger (they were some of the lucky ones; they had a place to go). Yet, the enormous rush of water didn’t baptize to bring forth new life. No, these waters came in a hurry and took up residence only to depart weeks later leaving mold, stench and destruction in their wake.

Today, there are grandkids who sit around a different table (one with far less history) beside their parents, grandparents, cousins. Today, new conversations scintillate the air around a new table in a new-old house. Today, there are celebrations and arguments and joy and there is family and that abundance overwhelms, but the missing remain present as no one expected the lingering litany of loss.

The table that got carried away by the flood could not be replaced, though a stand in fills its vacancy. Memories only surface intermittently these days causing ephemeral tinges of longing for another chance to grace its antique sturdiness. These moment usher in longing and then gratitude, for life, health, the past, and the people that brought that table to life.

(Day 33–this one was a joy to write, though I don’t love the ending…it is a bit rushed, but so am I. I can return another day.)

praise

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I would venture to say that I read Elizabeth Alexander’s poem “Praise Song for the Day” once a week, without fail. Of all the poems in the world, why read and reread that one in particular, you might ask? And, you know, that is a really valid question. There are so many poems that move my mind or spirit toward thinking and imagining and pushing beyond, but this one is on regular repeat. Always for different reasons, but essentially because in some way or another, it continues to instill in me a sense of hope for humanity. It portrays the strength we can muster when injustice needs to be called out and then Alexander pushes us a bit more and offers up a praise song for it: “Praise song for struggle, praise song for the day./Praise song for every hand-lettered sign,/the figuring-it-out at kitchen tables.” This is our responsibility. To be grateful for this gift of being in the struggle and finding ways to speak out against it…even when it is difficult. Even when we feel threatened. Even and especially when we speak out for others, with others, who are struggling more than we are…because we can, and we should. Because that is who we are called to be in the moments when justice fails. Because we are granted the freedom to do so.

And then there is this, “We encounter each other in words, words/spiny or smooth, whispered or declaimed,/words to consider, reconsider.” This idea of encountering “each other in words” steals my attention with each reading and reminds me that what I say, in every situation, no matter who is around to hear the utterance, bears significance, creates impact. As a teacher, I have to remember that no matter how powerless I may feel, in a room full of kids, I have power. To wield words carelessly can alter the course of a young person’s day, can fray self esteem, but when considered cautiously can instill confidence, encourage perseverance. I can’t make decisions for my kids, but I can select language and words that allow them to feel able to do the work even when it is difficult…I can choose words that respect their humanity. And the truth of this extends beyond the classroom. When I pause to think, to take a moment to empathize even briefly, before issuing words, I can take the time to craft the statements that reflect the kind of person I really want to be. Am I perfect with this? Of course not. Hence, this poem is a regular read because, as I tell my students, I am not above reminders!

But really, it is this that keeps me coming back to this poem…

“What if the mightiest word is love?

 

Love beyond marital, filial, national,

love that casts a widening pool of light,

love with no need to pre-empt grievance.
In today’s sharp sparkle, this winter air,
any thing can be made, any sentence begun.
On the brink, on the brim, on the cusp,
praise song for walking forward in that light.”
Love and light and hope and gratitude swirl in these lines and fill me up with a joy in
and a vision of what can be…if we only remind ourselves to be the people we were
created to be…if we only remind ourselves of the praise song for who we are and who we
have the capacity to become, together.
(Day 29!)