Autumn

Autumn. 
The air chills.  

Leaves turn and fall.
Summer passes.

We celebrate the passing,


Draping mantles in ginger leaves and

Piling tables with golden pumpkins,

Final crops of summer bounty.

Even in autumn, though,
Not everything passes. 

Some things live.

Even thrive. 
Stand out.

And other things sleep, renew.

Resting until spring.

And, as in all nature,

those that sleep and live

Survive with scars.

Scars that show surviving

Despite hardship

Despite pain and grief

Despite loss.

Autumn. 
A season of change. 
A season of surviving.  

First day of school

I love the first day of school. I always have, ever since my own first day of school. (I guess it's a good thing I became a teacher!). I love the anticipation of the day. All the new clothes and binders and paper! I have to say that I was kind of nerdy when I was a girl (probably not a shock to people who know me.) On the first day of seventh grade, I was so excited that I put ALL the notebook paper my mother bought me in my new binder. It was heavy. And when I was standing at the bus stop with all the older kids, who had a few sheets of paper in a folder and looked cool with their light loads, I realized how nerdy my lugging that huge bundle appeared. I removed almost all the paper that night, but there was no way to take back that first impression!

I still love the smell of new pencils--sharpening them renews the smell and makes me feel like writing. As I've gotten older, I've been able to indulge my love of writing utensils. I don't have to use the cheapest (which made sense for my parents when I was growing up). Now I can buy my own--and who knew that pencils and pens made such a difference? There is nothing like a Palomino Blackwing pencil for smoothness. And, although I don't use them anymore, I will never forget the scratchy feel of a fountain pen moving across paper.

So, yes, I am a nerdy teacher who still loves the first day of school. Because of that, I am extra happy when my children start sending first-day-of-school pictures of my grandchildren to me. Look at these cute faces, at the new shoes and combed hair! What's not to love?

 


But I was really tickled by this one of Anya. below. She's not just standing in front of the door--she's jumping for joy! She loves school, and she is excited to be heading back. She lives her life at top speed, putting everything she has into everything she does. What a way to start the school year! I want to emulate her enthusiasm for life. And I want that energy for the start of my own school year. Yes! (Fist pump inserted here.)

night time

A part of me longs to be inside my home when the sun sets and night comes on. A part of me likes the idea of being tucked in, settled down. I like being in the light with the darkness beyond the windows.

But sometimes, I am still at work when night falls. And when I look from my window, I can see the city beyond the practice field and school buildings.

I love the way the lights of the city glitter. I love that being in my office also feels a little like I'm tucked in and the world is "out there." I love looking into the night knowing that I am in the light.

But sometimes I am in a car at night, driving by homes where the people who live there are tucked in and I am the one on the outside, in the night. I am behind the car lights that glitter and flash in windows as we pass. I like the idea of seeing the windows of light, seeing families at a table, talking, or on couches, watching tv. I like to think of them tucked in and glad to be inside during the night. I like to imagine their lives. I always imagine them safe and happy, safe from the dark. Settled.

If I had my wish, I'd be inside, tucked in for the night, eating dinner and reading or watching tv, and imagining that the cars driving by were envying my being the one in the light, out of the night, and settled.

writing in the real world

Gabe's letter to Santa, complaining about his mom

We spent Christmas with our son and his family in Arizona. As part of that visit, I was able to see my grandchildren use writing for meaningful purposes in their lives--and I couldn't have been happier! On Christmas Eve, Tatum (5) wrote a note to Santa's elves. She wanted to make sure they wouldn't eat the gingerbread houses she and Gabe had made. Her note says: Dear elves: Please do not eat our gingerbread houses. I don't want you to eat it so you should not eat it. Love, Tatum. (spelling corrected).
Gabe's was written around the same time, to Santa. I had heard the exchange when he was asking his mom about why Tatum got to stay up as late as he did (he's 10). In exasperation (and humor), she said something like "I must like her more than you." A little while later, the letter pictured above appeared on the counter: Dear Santa, Today my mom told me that she likes Tatum more than me. I really don't think that's fair. I do all kinds of stuff for her. I babysit, do chores, make breakfast, make dinner. I also make my sisters happy. Please write back telling my mom not to have favorites. The good boy, Gabe.
Now, I know that Gabe is secure in his mother's affections, so I can see the humor in the situation. I also think that it's telling that both of these children see writing as a way to make things happen in the world. How cool is that???
As a writing teacher, I had to notice the different argumentative moves made by the two: Tatum was pretty much saying don't do it because I don't want you to do it--assuming that her desires carry weight with the elves, I suppose. Gabe, however, used evidence. He listed all the things he does to be a good, productive member of the family--to have value--and ended with a call to action: a letter back from Santa reprimanding his mother.
I know I love these two kids, so I find everything they do cute. But I also look at this experience from the perspective of someone who writes and who teaches writing and writing teachers. I love that these two see power in writing. And that they turn to writing to accomplish their own purposes. To me, that is the goal of my teaching--to help writers feel that power and that desire. I am not their teachers, but I am a proud grandmother who is glad someone who believes as I do is teaching my grandchildren!

 

Learning to write

I love my grandchildren's writing, especially when they are first learning to write. These are recent pages my daughter sent from our five-year-old grand-daughter, Shannon. She's in kindergarten.
I love the sentiment. I love the images accompanying the text. I even love the misspellings as they are evidence of learning.

I wonder, though, as teachers, when we stop being charmed by evidences of learning, when we stop seeing errors as the writer taking risks and start seeing the errors, instead, as wrong. As mistakes. As bad writing. Could I correct Shannon's spelling? Of course. But why would I? I don't mind that she spells my name with an o at the end instead of an a. I know her. I know that she's thinking of one of the sounds an o can make. (She's kind of a stickler for letters making the sounds she knows and doesn't like it at all when letters make different sounds in some words.)

Loving the notes and letters my grandchildren send me reminds me that we are all learners. Do I sometimes have to hold students to a standard? Yes. But not every time they write. And sometimes, even in polished writing, I should probably look at some of what my students do as risks they have taken, as their attempt to address something I may not understand, as evidence of learning in process. I should think of them as people. If I do that, I take a more human perspective. And, in the end, I might take more risks in my own writing, maybe giving myself the same freedom to take risks and try something that I might not be really good at. I hope so, anyway.

circle of life

Last week four people we knew passed away, relatives and friends. Some of the loss was expected and a blessing for lives in suffering; others were surprises. We were able to attend two funerals and still have one to go to.

During the same week, we also attended a sealing of a young woman we came to know and love after we were assigned to be her home teachers last year. Two days later we (with my parents) were able to seal 56 relatives to our family, extending the connections further.

And then, to top off the week, we had a new addition to our family: a new grand-daughter. What a delight and a blessing. Even though we haven't seen her in person yet, we love her already. Family members texted in the hours before her birth, all joyously awaiting her arrival, reminding me that a baby binds us together in happy ways.

And after a week like this--with all its ups and downs, with its joys and sorrows--I am reminded that this is the stuff of living. Through it all, our family holds. We have the things that matter most: a knowledge of life after this one and the connection of family that extends beyond the doors of death. Blessed!

Flaws and Beauty

Over Thanksgiving we met two of our children (and their families) who live in the southern part of the US and spent the holiday with them on the Gulf Coast, in a town called Navarre. The beach was beautiful--white sand as far as we could see. And, because it was "winter," the beach was pretty much our own. Our condos looked out on the ocean, which was sparkling and clear. From the pier, we could see all the way to the sandy bottom of the water, so we could observe small sharks, stingrays, and the large turtles that flocked the area (probably because of the turtle rescue facility there).

I read a little about the area. It seems that the town was the site for the filming of the second Jaws film. Eerie to think about when we were in the water! But the town--and the beach--had been partially destroyed several times since then by hurricanes. When the hurricanes come, the beach is often erased by the wind and waves. Afterward, new sand is dredged up from under the water and blown onto the beach again. That can explain why it is so white and clean, I suppose. And filled with shells.

In my office, I have a bowl of shells I have collected from beaches I have visited around the world. I can't remember which shell is from which beach anymore, but I put them in a clear bowl to remind me of the beaches I have visited. Favorite memories. On this trip, my grandchildren had collected grocery bags full of shells and laid them out to examine on the deck of the condo. As I looked at them, admiring their beauty, I realized that none of the shells was perfect. Each had a flaw of some sort. I imagined the flaws were the result of some ocean hazard--waves beating them against the sand, currents carrying them against rocks, even sea creatures using and then discarding them. Each mark that made the shell imperfect was the result of a struggle, but each mark, now, on the shore, drying in the sun, made the shells beautiful. Unique. Strong. They had survived intact. As I studied them, I realized that in each case, the beauty of each shell existed in the aspects that might be considered flaws. Just like us: it isn't perfection that makes us special. It is the way we carry our struggles and move on. Smoothing over the broken edges and becoming something else. Something better.