Like the Phoenix

On the eve of Easter, images of resurrection are co-mingling with my reflections of the last 31 days. The mythical phoenix drops feathers until it is bare. Then it is reborn. New life emerges after it drops one special feather at a time.

When we write, we take a risk. Like feathers, our words have fallen from our bodies, all special in their own way. We tap on "submit" and the words are no longer ours alone, leaving us feeling a little bare, a little exposed. The mythical phoenix, however, promises rejuvenation. We write and drop our feathers for readers to discover. A small part of us dies, making way for new life.

This annual challenge is a time to honor the moments we deem worthy. We've made meaning of our most hectic days. Friends, students, and colleagues unite and connect to say, "We're alive!".

Cousins

Small dishes of color, wax crayons, glitter, and stickers. The smell of vinegar and a little sulphur. Dozens of eggs. We gathered round to dip and decorate, two generations of cousins plus our Aunt Bethie. The youngest ones made quick work of a few, cracked some open for a snack, and sneaked out the door to explore. The oldest ones, we took our time with wire ladles, striving for stripes, poking around for polka dots.

Years ago, it was us in the back while our mothers tended the eggs. We pushed the limits of the yard into a cemetery. Names and dates on tombstones, imagined backstories for the dead. On the foot of one vault, instead of flowers, there were cans of coke. A bag of chips. Cigarettes. A candle. Not one would dare steal from a ghost. No, we ran home to sneak under the arms of our mothers. They were there every time. 

Kinesthetic Learning

Art history lessons are best learned on one's feet, or so we discovered at Boston's Museum of Fine Arts.

We started with our noses nearly touching impressionist paintings, such as Frank Benson Weston's Calm Morning and stepped backward, one foot at a time, to watch blurry lines and strokes of color morph come into sharper focus. 

Next, we realized that M.C. Escher's 13-foot Metamorphosis II required a stroll from one end to the next to call out each image that emerged from letters to squares to larvae to wasps to birds to fish to birds to squares, and back again. 

Then we stumbled upon Phantasmagoria, a collection of work known for its trickery that invited audience participation. With the push of a button, serene landscapes were illuminated to reveal bursting volcanoes and a kindly gentleman courter was discovered to be a dreadful, shrieking skeleton. 

In the most popular exhibit of the day, Takashi Murakami's bold flower petals were strewn across the floor as we entered the Kingdom of the Golden. His vibrant colors and sharp lines inspired an energetic dance alongside traditional Japanese scrolls that rolled out action plot lines from far left to far right. 

Later, when one of us had lost all steam and sought the exit, we meandered through several more exhibits, step by step, before we found the door. Our eyes were open to art today, but our feet led us where we needed to go.

Waldorf World

The walls were painted with the colors of a sunrise, and the lobby smelled like dinner was on the stove. We visited my dear cousin and her children at the Waldorf School of Cape Cod and entered into a land where children stood finger-knitting strands of a colorful web that stretched across corners on a long hallway during their after school program. The wood-working room was in mid-project glory with hand-carved spoons and shallow pencil trays on display. It was almost time for Art Night, so main lesson books were open to carefully sketched gods and goddesses, planets around the sun, and heroes like Harriet Tubman. 

We were welcomed into the Children's Garden room where my cousin is the teacher and her son is a student. Rosy curtains filtered the late afternoon sun, and our boys built a tower out of smooths trunks of a tree. They wore "heavy kitty" on their shoulders and made savory burritos of one another in an extra large cloth. Her bright-eyed baby girl showed off her walking and talking skills, following close behind. We drank ginger tea, ate popcorn, and remembered that the world is small when her familiar faces turned out to be familiar faces of mine. And if the world has pockets of education heaven like this, I'm happy to be a part of it.

Surf's Up

There is no danger of oversleeping when I'm on vacation. My seven-year-old nudged me awake this morning like a wave rolls, bubbling and fizzy, onto a pebbly shore. His eyes twinkled as soon as they opened, and he sprang from bed with an idea--it was time to go fishing. And he was off to get dressed with socks but no shoes--he grabbed his tackle box as I snagged my double-thick sweater and a cup of coffee behind him. There's no question, we are at the stage of parenting that asks, "Who knew our third would be so spunky? How bored would we be without him?"

Later, we ended up at the beach for brisk air bath. While my teenager and I guarded ourselves against the wind, the youngest ran ahead, springing from rock to rock on the jetty. He led a skipping contest and swung long sticks in dangerous directions. The puppy kept up, open-mouthed and leaping right along with him as the tide lapped at their footprints. 

On this day, we jogged the aisles in the grocery store, went head-to-head in Candy Land, gathered kindling and logs for a crackling fire. There was no sinking into the sheets until bedtime, only effervescence and chatter about tomorrow's plan for more of the same. I'm riding this wave because surf's up, and I know too well: one blink of an eye, and I'll miss out.

Open Road

My middle son was my right-hand man for about eight hours on I-95 North today. The car was packed with a couple suitcases and fishing poles, plus the littlest one and our pup were beaming from the back seat as we pushed off on our voyage. One look at Will in the passenger seat, and he looked like he'd grown an inch since he woke up. His dad and I, these days, are practically startled by how swiftly he has stretched in size to match his wit. Now that he is sixteen, we find ourselves in the stage of parenting that asks, "Can't we just stop time while we have him here at home?"

Zipping down the highway, his profile was framed by still-wintry woods, cityscapes, and blue sky, providing glimpses for the possibilities that lie in wait for him. His world view is as open as the road that stretched before us, but he is also as loyal as the trip is long. He has long been my trusty travel companion--he was the big brother who held baby bottles and passed cups of cheerios. Now, he's a mapper, a texter, and a distributor of cookies. Within the confines of our car, we listened to the same podcasts and an audiobook. We talked about school and family and complained about generalizations and people who speak in absolutes. The sun began to set in the last stretch, and he leaned back and took a nap. We were speeding to reach our destination, but my heart kept telling me that we all need to slow down.

Deep Roots

We spent time with our oldest son along the Occoquan this morning. He's the coach of his college rowing club, and like the young silver beech that fill the woods there, he stretches long and lean toward the sky. He is also firmly rooted on this earth--not just "grounded" as some might describe sensible folk--his source of energy runs deep and beyond visibility, beyond what his father and I can comprehend. He is twenty-years-old, and we are in that stage of parenting that asks, "How did this happen so quickly? How did our baby boy become a man?"

Our family hiked the trail, up and down the dirt path along the winding river to be with him. This is our seventh year as spectators to weekend regattas; most of those years had us running along the shore with borrowed binoculars and tentative cheers. Judging which eight seater comes in first is almost impossible when the race is close, creating a frequent state of uncertainty. Today, we rallied for rowers, but we saw a different side of the sport. We saw our son lead his crew from firm land with outstretched arms and a depth of spirit. Once again, we watched races that were too close to call from the grandstand. As for our unabashed parental pride, we couldn't be more sure.

Heroic Voices

Every year that I coach students for an oratorical contest, I go on a search for examples. This year, there are more stellar exemplars than I can count. Just today, Emma Gonzalez and David Hogg of Parkland, Mya Middleton of Chicago, and Naomi Wadler of Alexandria--just 11-years-old--plus countless others, they are changing the world by speaking out. As I watch in absolute awe of their poise at the podium and their choice of words to move minds, my heart only aches more and more. What an inspiration, I think, but what an absolute disaster.

Life Imitating Lit

I finished a book yesterday--Thunderhead by Neal Shusterman--and you can bet that I had students lined up to borrow this sequel to the popular Scythe. This coveted hard cover was propped up on the whiteboard when a teacher friend walked in.

"Is this yours?" she asked. "Oh, you'd better put your name on it before someone snags it." 

The literary terms lesson for today, girls and boys, is foreshadowing. 

I picked up a Sharpie with a reassuring smile, but as she walked out of my room, she cast one doubtful glance my way. 

How did she know I'd get distracted and put it down? Did she predict that I'd reach for the marker and the book later, only to set them down again when a student called me over for a question? Probably not, but I feel certain she sensed that Thunderhead would vanish between two class periods. Like a bubble, floating right before my eyes in its spherical iridescence, it just popped. It disappeared as if it were never there at all.

I should have known, but I ignored every clue. 

And our next literary terms lesson is dramatic irony. Because you, dear audience, probably saw it coming all along.

Cuts Like a Knife

My day started with a slice, but it was not nice. I reached for a paring knife for this morning's lunch-making routine, and a new, shiny one called out from the butcher block, "Notice me!" Ah, I suddenly realized, my husband replaced the one with the chipped point. I barely mourned the loss of my old, trusty friend who peeled sticky skins off of garlic cloves and split summer plums for years.

The young, sharp-tipped knife and I had barely met when I entrusted it with my avocado today. At first, I was enticed by the magic. The blade pierced the skin and sank into the fruit's flesh like liquid hot magma, so I confidently flung it into the pit. The motion was a familiar one, but this time, the knife slipped off the round, slick surface and landed directly into the flesh of my thumb. Done. I stuffed a paper towel wad into a bandaid, ignored the throbbing, and still managed to pack a turkey-avocado wrap for lunch.

I forgive quickly. I'm also a sucker for shiny things.

When it was time to prepare supper, I entrusted the culprit to the garlic, shallots, sugar snaps, and ginger. We slivered and diced an enviable array for any stir fry. We worked together in perfect synchrony, but we didn't even mention what happened this morning.

Talking it out wouldn't have helped. This case needed a little time, finesse, and some fresh ingredients. Trust is not entirely restored in the new kid on the block, but we're doing the best we can. That's what counts.

Savor the Snow

When servings of grocery store sheet cake get passed around, I might drum up the willpower to say, "No thanks." My sweet tooth knows that another treat won't be far behind, so it can wait. Today's snow day was no grocery store sheet cake.

When the cake has triple layers, fruit and custard, and the frosting is buttercream, I say, "Yes, please." When snow falls on the second day of spring, and I'm certain it won't again until next winter, I add, "Thank you kindly." This sweet day included waking up without an alarm. We went sledding and made snow angels. Our dog tumbled with a friend. I lay for a long, long stretch on the couch to chat with my boys and sink into my book. I was beaten soundly in a game of Monopoly. My laptop slept on the table all the while.

Our winter wonderland is already melting, the roads are cleared, and it's back to normal for a couple more days before break. I hungrily asked for seconds, but that delectable cake was devoured by all, and the dishes have already been put away. I'm so glad I enjoyed every single bite.

Slay the Beast

My calendar is a multi-eyed monster. In Ancient Greece, Argus Panoptes had one hundred eyes all over his head and body, an ever-watchful and never-sleeping figure, much like my task list. I need this beast, even as I try mightily to avert my gaze. His stares persist, and I check off each item, one by one. There is satisfaction to calming the monster to the point of soft breaths and weighted lids, and I comply most days. Yet, there are times when its every eye is wide open, and I quiver at the sheer number before me.

I quiver, that is, until I remember that I am Hermes, and I hold the sword. I am the maker of my calendar--my calendar doesn't make me. Shouldn't my students and I be the ones breathing easily? Oxygen and space do wonders for the mind, I've found. 

Argus versus me--it's an ongoing battle that I am sure to fight again and again. I just have to remember, those googly eyes are much prettier on a peacock.

March is a Fox, Start to Finish

Forget the lion and the lamb, March is a trickster. I've known if for all of my birthday-planning life. Ever since the year I fancied my celebration of me, just shy of the first day of spring, a day for daffodils and garden parties. It was no fault of my eight-year-old self, for the second week of the month was balmy. We donned shorts after school and played tag in the backyard. My mother pulled the weeds from soft soil. "Open the pool already!" we all cried.

"Could I have an outside party? With sprinklers and popsicles?" I asked my mom. She hesitated out of pure wisdom. Years of experience taught her that there was no way the sun would still be heating a 70 degree day on March 18. I resigned myself to bowling, movies, and slumber parties--all things indoors.

Today, I ran with middle schoolers who shed layers from the warmth. My youngest jumped on the trampoline. My husband took the dog for a frisbee sprint. Spring had arrived, anyone with their eyes open would claim. That is, until we looked at the forecast. 

"A rainy, icy mess," and maybe even snow are on the horizon. Oh March, I know you too well.

My Day, My Heart

A first-thing run, crisp air, a shining sun
Personalized pancakes, chocolate chips on two number fours
A rainbow kite, the faster we raced, the higher it soared

Budding blossoms, the backdrop to a DC stroll
One table full, birthday stories, candles agleam
Chocolate cake, glazed and crowned with cream

If I Could, I Would

If I could harness the power of the wizarding world today, I would apparate. Phone calls to my siblings are simply not enough. 

My brother and I connect as he sits in his car, live-parked and waiting for his wife. His backseat is packed with hand-me-down planters with little trees and shrubs for his Brooklyn patio. "You know how much I love plants?" he asks sincerely. Yes, I do know. We exchange stories from 1969 in Austin, the year he was born but before I was, that are only vivid to us both because we have the same parents who told them. We make plans for the summer fun and count the days, then send hugs to our children and spouses, which we both know are not nearly as nice as the real thing.

My sister is across the Atlantic, and the cooing I hear is coming from a rosy-cheeked niece I have yet to meet in person. Then her oldest and my youngest monopolize the phone to describe their toys and schools. Finally, we steal some minutes for travel plans before her middle daughter who is showing off perfect enunciation of, "Hi, Leah!" This little one and I are bonded by birth order, so her personal greeting is a gift. When we are together, we make matching snack plates for our kids and sometimes finish conversations. For now, we can only mark our calendars, plan, and count the days.

If I could apparate or reach into my supply of floo powder, I certainly would today. 

Ode to a Standardized Test

You require my students to arrive on time, 

clear their testing area,

turn in their devices,

and remain silent during directions.
Such sweet silence.

You provide scratch paper, 

with a firm suggestion to use it,

even if is is not required, 

and a sharpened pencil.

In other words, use both--

please remember the outline

or suffer the guilt.
Guilt for growth,
some might say.

Not that it means anything to you,

but I will remember the peppermints.
Children whisper thanks 

to the generous lady

like orphans 

in an old-school asylum,

hungry for a sweet.

You are so generous with your time,

and for that we are grateful,

especially for the students

who will take all day, in fact,

with their lunch tray beside

their laptop,

either because they are crafting

the most intricate of essays

in response to your 

titillating prompts

or they are left wordless in the face 

of this challenge.

E.g. 

Most schools offer a variety of activities, 

classes, and clubs. Identify one 

of these that students enjoy 

and explain why they enjoy it. 

Include specific details 

and examples in your response.

Oh, the three-prong thesis statements

our students will write,

thanks to your grand invitation.

Then the body paragraphs

with examples

from real-life, we hope,

that are both vivid and specific.

(Transitional words and phrases

are big point-earners, we hear.)

Finally, the conclusion paragraph that 

rephrases that thesis 

and a summary

of the main points, of course,

before the call to action.

Oh! That conclusion that answers,

So what?

That last question,

they report back,

is always a tough one.

The Neighborhood Run

Running is a good way to fight off the chill of cool March afternoons. I love having the excuse to jump out of my workin' boots and tie up my runnin' shoes. It's track season, and I play a minor role as "half time, assistant coach", and that's just enough for me. Both days this week, we hit the trail. I ran up front on Day 1 remembered that there are kids on the team who don't warm up--they're always going to sprint at red-hot speed. Today, I took to the middle, and then hung back to find the walkers, some who were doubting their decision to join a team that requires "so much running". Because, who knew, right?

One of those walkers might be surprised, but he's not giving up. He seemed depleted; it's his first year on the team. Turns out, he heard that this first week was grueling, but he was going to keep on'. "Next week will be better." Since it was just him, we jogged together and I made conversation to distract him from the slog. I told him how I started running--from scratch and now I never want to give it up. Some of my best long distances have been with a friend, and we've covered a LOT of territory, not just in mileage but in words. 

Before long, the course was complete, and it didn't take anyone down, although the wind threatened to at times. No coats necessary, though, at track practice.

Lead the Way

Anyone who doubted the agency of middle school students needed to witness today's 17-minute walkout at 10 AM.

Without one adult at the helm, hundreds of students funneled through crowded halls and out on to our sports field to form a large circle, a perfectly round circle of at least six kids deep. In the center, a group of student leaders raised their fists and led a chant, "What do we want? Gun control! When do we want it? Now!"

With just their joint gesture, they invoked a moment of silence. Everyone fell to their knees in unison. Not long after, one gifted orator took the megaphone and with barely a glance at her index cards, she called out our government for not doing their part to end gun violence. Teachers stood on the bleachers to get a better view. We chose to walk out because we, too, believe in the cause. But these were their seventeen minutes, and they owned every second.

All of this is to say, I wish they didn't have to.

Be Brave

I climbed through a thicket of angst last night before I fell asleep last night. It was the email I had opened-- a friendly request to collect Slice of Life blog links to share with our department. This message did not have thorns, it was sent with the intention of building spirit. It was an olive branch, leafy and fruited. But I leaned back into my own woody tangle of brush and dwelled on my reticence to expose my writing.

My students write, and we have a tradition of posting. It is not they who write, but we who write. If I ask them to write personal narratives, I try it too. Literary essays? Sure, I'll write one of my own. I challenge them to write slices of life, and I here I am since 2010, writing slices of life. We don't criticize, we connect. We don't sneer, we support. I've been aware of their vulnerability, and when I detect stress, I give them options: Share with a smaller group. Share with me. Just share. "Your voice matters," I've said. Then, when I'm invited to share my writing with my peers, I retreat.

Let's unpack that," my group of kindred writing spirits might press. I was shy as a child. I am shy now. My mother was an English teacher, and that's a lot of pressure. I spoke up with some embarrassingly wrong answers somewhere along the way. Cringe. My monthly writing group, my trusted audience, have bonded over SOLSC annual challenge. What a source of pleasure it's been over the years, but I'll admit, that for some of those years, I've taken breaks from Two Writing Teachers. I've chosen to share my posts with my group of four, and that was all. This year, I'm back and several of my colleagues are in. Hence, the angst.

"It's not what you write. It's that you write," Such words of wisdom sent by text this morning cut the brambles back substantially. Not long after, I made my confession to another friend in hopes that we may hold back the links together. And her response?

Be brave.

She's right. Writing exposes. It leaves us feeling vulnerable, whether it is the complexity of ideas or use of who vs. whom. Our past experiences may shape our confidence, but the present moment carries a special responsibility. I would never turn away a writer, no matter his or her skills, who arrived on my shores, and I will expect the same in return.

Gone is the thicket--it's time to let the leaves and the fruit grow in its place. Write and be brave. Then sleep well.

Good Morning, Lunches

I am a maker of sandwiches and a filler of thermoses. Before my family is up, I work in the kitchen alone. I begin at the coffee maker, which is when I realize that I am not, in fact, alone. My sweet dog, Alice, is there to watch my every move. While coffee grounds transform themselves into a magical concoction to make every morning palatable, I pull out the bread, the peanut butter, the cream cheese, and/or the jelly. I boil the water on the stove for the macaroni that my youngest considers a treat, which I indulge approximately two times a week. I am so grateful for our fruit bowl that my husband fills on Sunday. It has clementines, apples, and always bananas. I open the box of granola bars like the gift they are, a dessert but also wholesome, or so I’ve always thought. I hide the zip-locked bags of sandwiches, thermoses, fruit, and snacks behind the butcher block, also nestled between two pitchers full of wooden spoons. I love my dear Alice, but I prefer to protect these treasures for the eaters of bag lunches, whom I am walking up the stairs to wake.

Busy vs. Beauty - It's a Tie

How is it possible that after this weekend

of grading and planning, 

of reading and running, 

of commenting and connecting, 

that I feel as if I lost ten hours 

instead of just one?

How is it possible that in this preterm spring

the sun sets in a brilliant display

behind wintery bare branches

in broad strokes of violet and pink

as if to say, "Flowers, you will soon 

arrive to follow my lead."

It is entirely possible. I know.

Hatching Memories

I was coaching my seven-year-old to crack an egg this morning without catching the shell when I told him the story of my aunts. They were each in their early twenties when one complained that the other was a terrible cook, made clear by the crunchy scrambled eggs she served.

Both aunts were my heroes. So cool, they taught my cousins and I to jump from bed to bed while singing, "Jenny, Jenny, I've got your number--867-5309!" These memories were made in Old Chatham at a house set up on a hill. From the back deck, we looked out on a giant pie-shaped swath of land bordered by forest. Every day, deer would wander out of the woods to nibble on grass, and my grandmother announced their arrival. My cousins and I gathered round to see.

It was at this house, I told my egg-scrambling son, that Papa (my Dad) woke everyone up one early morning with an urgent message. "Get up! There's a bear outside! You've all got to see this!" The house was full of cousins on twin beds, trundles, and pull-out couches. We rubbed our eyes and followed him to the window with more an air of compliance than curiosity. My cousin Jenica said, "Uncle Jim, that's a dog." A dog, indeed. Even if it was a chubby, wide-nosed, black-haired, scruffy Newfie, it was a dog just the same. We laughed at my Dad and went back to bed.

"Do you know how many sisters Papa had?" I asked as put the bread in the toaster. He shook his head. "Four. Do you know many brothers? Three. And he was the oldest. What would it be like to grow up with seven siblings?"

We pictured the other children in our little house, sleeping in cubbies under counters and on ottomans in the family room. "I could fit at least two more in my bed," he pledged.

It wasn't often that the house in New York was full of so many people, but the days are impossible to forget. My cousins and I hiked to see an impressive view of the Hudson Valley from a rock cliff, led by an uncle. We rode horses together, even though I had no idea what it meant to cantor or trot, thanks to an aunt. We swam in the pool and listened to them talk about what it was like to be in college and why hot rollers are better than a curling iron. We ate crunchy eggs.

"I always wished I had loads of brothers and sisters when I was growing up," I told my youngest. "One of my favorite movies was Cheaper By the Dozen because I loved the scenes when the oldest kids were leading the youngest." I pointed to the eggs on the counter. "How many are in a dozen?" I asked.

"Twelve!" he said.

"Can you just imagine?" I asked with a lovely row of stair-step boys from twenty all the way down to seven forming in a thought bubble above my head.  Lord knows, I had enough years to make that family, but...

"Ping," went the toaster and breakfast was served.

Welcome Home

One pedaled in on his bike. Two walked home after a parent teacher conference. One pulled up after rowing practice. One picked up dough and cheese on his way home. He assembled amoeba-shaped pizzas to slide into a very hot oven. We all sat round the table to sample every crispy-chewy-spicy-hot concoction on this happy Friday. Five under one roof and there were more than enough slices to go around.

The Other SOL

Think about how daily life, from reading to playing games to communicating with others, has changed over the past hundred years because of technology.  Using specific details and examples, explain how these advancements in technology have changed daily life.

It's Writing SOL prep time, and kiddos spent the day unpacking this prompt. Torturous, right? To be honest, the accessibility of the topic (yay, no research required), the reliability of the 5-paragraph essay (nice, a graphic organizer), and a thesis statement (fun, a sentence frame), all combined to make a light-hearted lesson. No one fell into a stupor staring at a blank page. There were zero desperate pleas to Google just one more article to find the perfect quote. In fact, I don't think anyone left to go to the bathroom.

We started brainstorming. What are the ways technology has changed daily life? Ideas abounded because, hello, this world is absolutely saturated with technology. I heard some standards: communication, transportation, access to information, etc. They went further to list safety and security, distractibility of kids (don't forget adults, I added), the way we fight wars, addiction to games, the way we read, how activists spread their messages, the pressure to multi-task (...sorry, I'm back. Just checking my email and entering a few grades). Nice job pushing the prompt, I thought.

"Who grades these essays? I mean, if you do it, won't you be too biased?" one asked. (In favor or against? Just kidding, they're all my favorites.) I explained that essays will be scored by readers who work for the Virginia Department of Education.

"That must the most boring job on earth," another said. There's some truth there, but jeepers. This world is changing fast, and based on their ideas, they're paying attention to the good and the bad developments around them. Frankly, any reader will be lucky to read their work.

Okay. Maybe I would be a little biased. Also, did I mention we're in the middle of an optimism unit?

P.S. If I were writing my own essay, I'd surely include the amount of time I devote, almost daily, to sticking my entire top half into a cavernous, hot, malfunctioning copy machine to yank out jammed handouts. It's a good thing the VDOE doesn't care if the writer's glass is half full or half empty. 

Where Are My Roots of Optimism

My roots of optimism, these days, come from my students. Sure, some grumbled at this year's oratorical contest prompt. But after a few doses of daily cheer and some awesome video examples, the vast majority have brought a hopeful spirit, a can-do attitude, an openness to the ideas that spring from their every day. "What does the Slice of Life challenge have to do with your speeches?" I've asked them more than once. How will we draw in our audience? Let's paint a picture, let's build trust, let's make a connection. And the worry that I'll have to read the same speech 100 times? Nope, the topics are as varied as they are. Here are just ten examples:

Their roots of optimism are from...

1. The belief that everything happens for a reason
2. The name my parents gave me
3. Women who have stood up for themselves
4. The menu at Taco Bell
5. Realism
6. The colors of a revolution
7. Optimistic nihilism and the drumline
8. My childhood books, my complacent cat, and my mom and dad
9. One small single-handed dinghy
10. Water

P.S. I 💗 teaching English.

Lights Out

We did not lose power when wind threatened to blow our house down last Friday. The howling alone might have sent more safety-conscious folk to take cover in our bomb shelter of a basement, but I embraced the energy of the storm and powered through work as if time was running out. I graded, posted, cooked, and cleaned like the wind.

Tonight, it is raining. I can hear a steady drip, drip, drip, drip like a metronome setting the tempo of a rather downbeat song. Yet it is tonight, this drab, late winter night that we lost have lost power. No drama, just very, very dark.

I was out when it happened, and my middle was holding down the fort when he sent word, my husband also out at a separate event. Still, I did not return to chaos. The energy outside matched the energy indoors. Candles lit my path from the kitchen to the upstairs. The living room glowed with a spinning German carousel fueled by heat that I didn’t have the heart to put away after the holidays. I’m so glad I didn’t. My youngest was already snuggled in pjs, holding a flashlight with his chin to see his book. Now I get to write by the warmth of a single flame.

I don’t know yet why we lost power this night and not the other, but as the drip, drip, drip sets a hypnotic rhythm, I’ll take the universe’s cue, blow out the candles, and head to bed.

My Supper Tale

Seaweed salad. We went out for sushi tonight, and it was the first dish I ordered. There is something medicinal about this green, salty delight that I crave.

Perhaps it's because I was a mermaid for many years, spending hours exploring the waters of spring-fed Island Pond. Diving down, I'd flip toward depths that were too far from the sun to be warmed. Reaching my arms as far as they could go, I'd touch the pond floor on a dare. No one liked to touch the muck, but as a mermaid I knew I could, so I did. My fingers brushed over mossy rocks and decaying wood. I made my way to a sunken boat and I was rattled by the spirit of the man who left it behind, but I grabbed a rusted oarlock as proof of my discovery anyway. Before I resurfaced, I'd host a tea party for the other mermaids with wild hair and bubbly smiles.

We never ate seaweed. No, it wasn't on the menu in this freshwater haven, not even for mermaids. It is now that I order the seaweed, a magic mixture of minerals, when a long day on two feet reminds me of home.

Let's Get Real

Folding laundry is much more fun with a good show to watch, and my latest choice has been the Netflix version of Anne of Green Gables. The first few episodes have brought me back to when my bosom friend Valentina, a true kindred spirit, and I talked endlessly of Anne (with an E) Shirley and her spunky ways. Years ago, we got lost in the pages of L.M. Montgomery's books, and later the VHS taped series, when we imagined living in idyllic Avonlea. One might be surprised to know that we were in high school and still wearing flowers in our hair to harness Cordelia's magic. Anne's adventures--confronting bullies at school, preparing for an oratorical contest, crushing on Gilbert against advice--offered a simpler approach to the drama we experienced as teenage girls. It was comforting to know it was natural to fall into the depths of despair, but even better to know we could face it together like Anne and Diana.

This remake, though, wouldn't have calmed our angst as it offers much deeper insight into Anne's plight before joining Matthew and Marilla. As an adult, I'm intrigued by this interpretation that presumes Anne was exposed to serious and unsavory things that appear in frightful flashbacks. It's no wonder that in so many years in the asylums and foster care, she would suffer abuse along the way. At sixteen, I didn't suspect that Anne's nervous talking and fantastical imagination was her way of coping, but it absolutely makes sense. 

Whether this a "perversion of Anne's story" as some complain or a necessary step in our quest to understand the human condition, I'll keep watching before I decide where I stand. Meanwhile, those baskets of laundry appear a lot less daunting. 

Fly Away Home

At the back door, leash in hand, my dog's eyes asked, "You're taking me out there?" Violent winds shook the house so much that we hadn't been outside in hours. But dogs require walks--I signed that metaphorical contract when I adopted her.

I hereby promise to take my dog outside twice or more daily to address biological needs, physical fitness, and emotional health. I swear I will pause periodically to allow for the sniffing of things, including tufts of grass, cracks of sidewalks, and fire hydrants, for the therapeutic aspects of worldly aromas. I ensure that she will run until her ears flop in the breeze. I will provide periodic meetings with other dogs for the exchange of brief, secret messages that I may never hear. In good times and bad, in sickness and health, I will walk my dog (or guarantee a substitute when I can not).

On we marched into the storm amid downed tree branches and darkened homes without power. She broke in to a trot, mouth opened wide to gulp cold air. After a long smelling session at a rosemary bush on the corner, we crossed a bridge over a highway. The gust was strong that we might have been lifted off the ground. I imagined us in flight, no control of our direction, my coat billowing like a sail and her feathery fur whipping to and fro. However, I would not let go. We might be blown one block over or two hours over the Atlantic, but I made my vows.

Thankfully, she made her intentions clear and locked her legs before turning back toward home. We took a shortcut, a quicker route to a warm spot on the couch. 

Bound by law and by love. 

Play to Learn

I complained to a friend the other day that the Bey Blades my son plays with are too violent. I mean, the name alone conjures an image of a dark alley crime scene involving sharp weapons in back pockets. Yet, when she pressed for more details, I realized that they're essentially tops. They're not quite the quaint twirling objects that children have been playing with for centuries, but close. Bey Blades gain impressive speeds when they're released from a rip chord and dropped into an arena, usually two at a time in a fierce competition.

The first few moments begin with a graceful dance, the tops circle one another several times before one appears to grow agitated and knocks the other. The other strikes back. The outcome of their battle may cause one to burst, requiring reassembly, or just to retreat into a corner pocket. Either way, the victor earns a point and the tournament continues.

This morning, I cast my aversion aside to play along with my second grader and saw the toys in a new light: a vocabulary lesson. 

"The tip and spin plate on that one makes it impenetrable," he declared. Counting points, he claimed, "You won that round because I wavered." Later he explained, "The ones with stamina aren't good in attack, but once they're in the arena, they don't want to give it up."

"I'm going to change the pants on mine," he announced.

"That sounds like personification. You're giving your Bey human qualities." He laughed out loud just as I remembered my original reservations. Did the children playing at Homer's feet in 8th century BC pit their clay toys against one another?! Maybe they did. And maybe they learned some robust vocabulary along the way.

Not Even a Leap Year

Is February always so short? Somehow March 1st arrived a couple of days earlier than I expected. Yes, I have a calendar, although one might say I've been "in the zone" when it comes to getting stuff done, and my list of action items has been long. But apparently not long enough. Because last night at the eleventh hour, I realized it would be selfish to keep the joys of the SOLSC to myself. Not only should I open it up to my students, I declared, but to the entire school!

No problem. I dug into the archives, set up a fresh calendar, built a Google Classroom, and emailed a couple of announcements. "Spread the word!" I called out to English teachers--or those who had a minute to check email before classes started on the first of March.  By 8:15 AM, a few kids had already signed up. Before I finished the introduction to my first class, one of my kids had posted subversively from inside his desk. 

"I really want that slice of pie," he said in reference to the reward I'll bake for top slicers. 

"What are you doing on your iPad while I'm talking, young man?" I wish I had asked assertively. "Writing, you say? Okay, good." Ignore me all you want, children. Just keep writing.

As for the success of my experiment, there's no telling what will happen. A school-wide writing challenge? Will enough students write? Will too many? Can I maintain a community that is both creative and civil? For middle schoolers?! Two more days of February would not have been nearly enough to calm my uncertainty. Nevertheless, we have 31 days of March. Let's see how it goes.