40 Day Challenge is on!

Posted on May 3, 2016 by conversationeducation

I woke up this morning with my blog on my mind and I said Write Girl Write! It has been so long since I have been moved to write. That was until this past week where I took on a new challenge in my life, something to practice a daily meditation EVERY day for 40 days.

Quotesaboutlifeandwriting.com

So where am I in this challenge? I am on day 4, I think! And while it may sound pretty easy, it has been my experience that easy is as easy does. The hardest part is getting myself down and on that damned mat! Once I am there I find myself seeking out more yoga, breath work and meditations to practice. The effort comes not from the actual act of the meditation; the effort comes in getting my ass onto that mat. And even as I type, there it sits, right in front of me, beckoning me to sit, waiting for me to occupy. (I am coming, just let me get this written!!)

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The theory here is that it takes 40 days to make or break a habit and yes, this is a habit that I want in my life. To be fair and kind it is a habit that I have incorporated some days and the truth of the matter is that those are the days where I find myself flowing through the day with less effort. In short it allows me to be who I am, wherever I am, whomever I am with.

If we believe we are human beings then being is really what we are meant to do, right? But even as I sit and begin my practice on the mat my mind is swirling with the list of things I must get done. We are NOT human doings, and yet, so much of our self worth is measured in how much we do! I find it harder and harder to meditate with this spring air, bright sunshine and not to mention a full moon that has kept me up for the past 2 nights! So in essence you could make the leap that I NEED this time to myself in stillness even more. And I do!

I was in a restaurant the other day; the first day of this 40-day challenge and the waitress walked over to our table and asked if she could interrupt. She then went on to say that she wished she had had a camera because in all of her years of waitressing, never had she seen someone who was so completely in the moment. She went on to describe how I was looking and listening to my lunch date with such presence. She then thanked us and made her way away from the table. I tucked that gem away in my back pocket as a reminder of just how important it is to have that phone away in my purse, to make eye contact and to “really” listen.

She said I was “in the moment”. In the moment is where I strive to be, but with a very busy mind, a phone, ipad and laptop at my fingertips and so much to “do” it is rare to actually be there.

As I walk into one of my schools after the quarter has closed, there is an enormous banner celebrating all of those in the school who made the honors list. First glance seems benign enough, unless of course you were one point away from making any of those lists or even if you were miles away from making that list, the bottom line is that if you are not there, well you pretty much suck. You didn’t DO enough to make the list of the elites.

projecthappiness.com

I see so much time spent on busy work when I am in classrooms. The language is all about what is and isn’t done! There is a done work basket, there are finished folders, lists of things to get done in the morning while the teacher meets with other students, but the idea of just being with a book or a piece of writing for an extended period of time doesn’t seem like enough anymore! This worries me, as that sense of getting lost in a book or in one’s own writing or wondering and inquiring in science or social studies is a critical part of becoming real learners. I cringe when I hear teachers telling kids to put their book away to complete a worksheet on silent e. So they comply, follow directions to get that busy work worksheet done, even though they were living and breathing silent e’s in their own reading. Sometimes I want to yell out, STOP the madness! Just let them BE!!

The rate of yogi’s and yoga studios has increased like wildfire across this nation. Yoga means union and the ultimate purpose of yoga practice is to prepare one to meditate. Movement before stillness. Doing to “be”. In this age of technology that continues to move at warp speed it is easy to get caught in the fast lane, moving forward, forward, forward…but towards what? From pre-school to the best kindergarten, from Elementary school to Middle to High School to get into the very best colleges. The race is on, but you know what? At the end of all of that education you still have people seeking out a way to make meaning of their lives and hopefully a place to work that allows them to live and work with purpose. If we are always looking ahead at the next step then we are never really here? Are we? The idea of slowing down, taking the back roads to just wind one’s way through the countryside is where I want to be and I believe it is where many of us want to be, but we can’t because we are so revved up and moving too quickly to even realize there are options.

So today, like the next 36 days, I will get myself to that mat, I will meditate, do some yoga and notice. I will “do” the practice to “be”. And while I know every day will be far from rosy, at least I will have that time every day to sit in stillness, to remember why I am here and fully embrace the notion of being, for at least 3 minutes each day. Now onto that mat!

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Remembering Jean Robbins

Posted on November 22, 2015 by conversationeducation

I read an essay, ham of god, by Anne Lamott to begin class this week. I used to read aloud all the time, but as with many good practices we just let them slide to the wayside. I read because I was trying to find some humor, solace and some kind of sense of all that is happening in the world. I read because my dear friend and mentor, Jean Robbins always said, read aloud.

Jean passed away on November 8^th. Jean was one of those people who comes into your life and never leaves. She was kind, generous and incredibly good at connecting people and to people herself. I am forever grateful to have known her.

I attended her service yesterday afternoon, only to be greeted by so many faces from the past. It was as if a timeline of my teaching career spread across the room, from my Maplewood School Ed 500 teacher, Karolina Bodner and Internship principal, Dennis Harrington and fellow intern, Judy George to Maryellen Webb one of my first teaching partners at Barrington Elementary School to Nancy Barcelos, one of my teaching colleagues from Pollard School in Plaistow to Rachel Small, a student I have had in class for LTT to David McCormick who teaches at the Writer’s Academy to Ellin Erwin who’s daughter was in my Writer’s Academy class 2 summers ago to Maryellen Giacobbi, whose work with Don Graves changed the way we taught writing forever.

It hit me that so many of the amazing educators in my life were in some way connected to Jean. This was no accident. I was not alone in this as we stood talking “Jean” people began to make more and more connections…”oh you know so and so….” and that is how the legend of Jean will live on as we each continue to make these connections one at a time, for a lifetime.

You see, Jean and I met while she was a supervisor of interns many years ago at Barrington Elementary School. I had a troubled intern who would often show up to work so hung-over that she could not function. Jean and I banded together and recommended that she not move forward with her career in teaching. (This was not something that was done, as by the time one made it to their internship it was pretty much a done deal that they would go on to teach!) I am not sure what happened to that intern, but Jean and I had formed a bond by making a tough decision, but the right decision.

So when my daughter, Emma, was diagnosed with Leukemia at 3 and a half, I walked out of my 4^th grade classroom at the Pollard School and never returned to a classroom full time again. When I thought my teaching career was over I called Jean about a year into Emma’s treatment as a stay at home Mom with a sick child and her younger brother who never sat still. I was exhausted, housebound and NEEDED something to get me out and to get my brain working again. Jean promptly set up a meeting and introduced me to Tom Newkirk and Louise Wrobleski, two of the most influential people in my life today. They offered me a consultant position at the Sandown school. I accepted as it meant I would work one day a week, a day to be out and be something other than mother and caretaker.

I was so excited that I ran out and bought the very first car phone, the size of a small loaf of bread so that I could be contacted if needed as Mom and went back to work in this capacity. As time went on and Emma got healthier my load increased until one day Tom offered me a part –time position as Field Coordinator for Learning Through Teaching and that is where I have been for the past 15 years. Jean changed the course of my life and for that I am forever grateful.

I always said I wanted to be like Jean when I grew up, always traveling, swapping her home before HomeExchange or Airbnb even existed. I learned at her service that she had been abroad 50 times and her son in law, Gary listed them all. I always knew Jean missed LTT meetings as she was often travelling, but 50 times! WOW!! I guess it is time to grow up, to take and create every travel opportunity I can and just do it!

I started when I walked out that door and had a choice to go home or to follow through with my plans to revisit my singing sisters for a sing along in Portsmouth with Voices From the Heart. I was tired, but I knew that Jean would have gone because she said she was going. As I drove along route 4 towards Portsmouth I noticed the sky was turning a slight pink. The further I drove, the more intense the colors became. I reveled in these colors and pulled over in Newick’s parking lot, the smell of fried everything wafting in the air, to capture it. It seemed like the perfect end to a service where one woman impacted so many people’s lives and while what she did seems short of miraculous, I realize what she did was to fight for children, to stand up for what was right for kids and teachers and to connect people near and far.

Jean’s sunset from Newicks.

I remember Jean telling me a story about being at a train station in Germany and while there was a language barrier, Jean laughed her wonderful laugh and recalled a little boy tugging on his mothers shirtsleeve screaming, “NEIN, NEIN!!” Through her laughter she said, “NO, is one word that is universal and sounds pretty much the same in every language”. And then she listed off all of the translations of no she could remember.

So I salute you, Jean Robbins, Grand Dame of education in New Hampshire, as the sun sets on a beautiful life, a life that touched so many. May we all live with an open heart, listen to each other, reach across our borders and connect with each other and the world.

You are loved. You are missed.

Good Night Jean.

Writers Take Flight: My Forever Books On Writing

Posted on September 8, 2015 by conversationeducation

When I work with a group of teachers I often find myself asking the question, “Raise your hand if you are a reader.” And the room soars with eager waiving hands as I look out and see the sheer pride that comes with this identity as reader. If I wait a bit they turn to each other and automatically start talking about the books they have read, are reading or want to read. As teachers we are, for the most part, comfortable in our identities as readers.

Then comes the second question, “Raise your hand if you are a writer.” Immediately the tenor of the room changes and small hands start to make their way up and then just as quickly glide back into their wing holds. Very few, if any, hold their hands as highly or as proudly as before. Even those who DO write are reticent to give themselves up as “writers”. Even when I soften the question and ask, “how many of you write?” there is great reluctance and the murmurs sounds something like, “Well…I keep a journal” “Ummmm, I do like to write poetry.” And slowly I begin to see people coming out of their self-imposed closets of shame and trying on this new identity as “writer”.

Perhaps this is because writing is like nothing else we teach. Writing is generative in that EVERY thing about it comes from the writer, whether it is the answer to a prompt or a fantastical story from beyond, it is the writer’s words on the page there for anyone to come and poke, prod and make fun of; where as anything else we teach we are interacting directly with something, be it a novel, the scientific process or numbers. Writing does not provide this safety net. It is the writer, the blank page and the words of the writer. That is IT!! Donald Graves always used to say that sharing your writing is akin to getting naked in front of everyone. It is THAT personal. (But I don’t mind saying that I will choose words over nudity at this soaring age of 50!)

Photo Credit to: .flickr.com

So here are my “forever” books on teaching writing that I will always hold near and dear to my heart but more than that they are books that really changed my thinking or gave flight to my beliefs. It was hard to narrow it down to five because we almost NEED these books more than we need any other books because the teaching of writing is always the first of the three r’s to be let go. It is the adopted step child that never seems to get its’ due and I believe a big part of this is because we have teachers who do not identify themselves as writers…yet! I would argue that we need writing in our schools more than ever. Information is cheap. Everyone can find anything at the touch of a keystroke, but communicating that knowledge in a clear, concise and interesting way is something else completely. I just have to start with the great “Don’s” of UNH in the names of Murray and Graves.

I first met Don Murray at Young’s restaurant in Durham, NH. He met me there after reading some of my work. He showed up with a bound collection of quotes, writing ideas and the famous laminated latin phrase, “Nulla dies Sine Linea” (Never a day without a line) of which I still have as a keepsake forever. Murray in his suspenders sat across from me and talked about what I had written and then asked, “What is this really about?”. He was the most down to earth person I had ever talked with about my writing. He was encouraging and questioning and an amazing listener. The day he came to my house and asked me to “name that poem” was a story I still hold dear and tell to this day. (See earlier post Ramblings on Lobsters, Testing, Brownstones and Poetry over the John ). From his Boston Globe columns (some of my all- time favorite works of his) to his writing handbooks I would have to say that Expecting the Unexpected is top on my Murray list!

“We must allow-no, encourage-our students to make use of language to explore the inner and outer worlds each is driven to explore. And when students have found their territory, they must search it with the language-and the language skills- they have, not what we wish they had. Once they start grappling-on the page- with the meanings they need to discover, we can help them see how the traditions of form and language help clarify thinking.” Because, “Writing is not thinking reported, it IS thinking.” (Pp.102 – 110 in Expecting the Unexpected)

Then there is Donald Graves, a former minister who when he would speak in his gentle voice, the room would instantly get quiet. I would have to say the book that I grew up with and stuck with me the most is the brown Bible, WRITING: Teachers and Children At Work. It that maps out the original work done in Atkinson, NH where Graves brought to Elementary school, The Writer’s Workshop from a college model. The major shift was removing the teacher from the front of the room and putting the students in charge of their own processes.

“The directive, pushing teacher began to move back from her position of control so that she could return control and responsibility for the writing to the child.”

This was revolutionary and changed the way everyone taught forever. In the words of a dear friend and colleague, Karen Atherton, “Why do what they (your students) can do better?” It is tried and true still to this day. It is a book that should be on every Writing teachers shelves.

Wondrous Words by Katie Wood Ray HAS to be at the very top of my list. Sure I had implemented the Writer’s Workshop for years, but it was really Katie’s ideas about “reading like a writer” that changed the way I taught writing forever in that it helped me find authors to ground me when I was “winging it” with kids. And while this idea has been adopted, stolen and borrowed by so many, I really believe it was Katie who brought it to the forefront and mapped out how she used this lens to make the teaching of writing more concrete and accessible to all. This is ABSOLUTELY a life changer, forever book on my shelf! And while I want desperately to add a Katie quote here I realize that once again, this book has flown away and been temporarily (I hope!) adopted by someone else!! I invariably lent it to someone and it never found its way back to the nest. (If you are who I lent it to please return as soon as possible!!) I love this look, the smooth feel of it, the color, the content and absolutely everything about this book and see that my shelves are bare without it!

In The Middle by Nancie Atwell is one of those books that I have seen sustain the test of time. There are very few from my “generation” of teachers who have not leafed through, dog-eared and tried on Nancie’s teaching in some way, shape or form.

“As a writer I tell stories so I may understand, teaching myself and trying to teach others through the actions and reactions of those “people” on the page.”

In the Middle reads like a collection of stories, of teaching stories, that invite you into Nancie’s classroom, to sit down beside her and her students and see what it “feels” like to teach responsively. One of the greatest days in education was the day she was awarded the Global Teacher Prize (http://www.globalteacherprize.org/winner) as it gave credit to all of those out there fighting the fight to teach children and not curriculum. Thank you Nancie for all you have done!! It gives us all hope.

Finally I include, Minds Made for Stories by Thomas Newkirk and while you may think I am brown nosing here to include Newkirk and only Newkirk on both my reading and writing lists, be assured that they made their way onto both lists because they deserve to be here.

Tom writes books that make me think and if I am totally honest here I find these books are becoming more rare as time goes on. Not to say there are not some great professional books out there, but so many of them are not new! They are simply re-hatched from old ideas, but are often missing the meat, or the theory behind them. Perhaps I have just been in this for too long, but I always know Newkirk will prod my thinking and in this book he does just that.

At a time where we have narrowed writing down into 3 major categories of narrative, persuasive and informational, Newkirk argues that narrative; stories are at the heart of all writing because it is through story that we are able to make sense and comprehend what we are reading. This is a MUST read for anyone stuck on the Common Core flight to writing hell!

“Voice is a constant, a human presence, a sensibility, a character, a narrator and guide. Only in a phone book or the equivalent do we get information “raw”. But in sustained writing, any information is mediated by a teller, and that teller is part of the reading experience, just as a tour guide is part of the experience of visiting Monticello. When that teller is hidden (often the case with textbooks) or undetectable we have trouble sustaining a reading. The more we sense this human presence, and feel attracted to it, the more willing we are to stay with the text.” Pp 38

Photo Credit: thewritelife.com

What all of these books have in common as I look back at them is that they invite teachers to write and to “see” themselves as writers. While this may sound strikingly obvious, it is one of those simple things that makes the biggest impact and so with these books under your wing, hopefully you too will find the courage to let go, raise your hand high and proclaim your identity, “I am a writer!”.

Gathering the Light

Posted on December 6, 2014 by conversationeducation

“Every moment of light and dark is a miracle”. Walt Whitman

I love dressing up my house for Christmas. In fact, it may just be my most favorite part of this crazy season. Sure I love seeing people, and finding the perfect gifts and the season of giving and all of that, but there is nothing more creatively satisfying then just being alone in my home and making it merry and bright.

This year I am obsessed with little lights. I have spent more money on lights than anything else…yet. (I haven’t actually even started my shopping yet!) There is something about lighting up every room with twinkling lights that make it feel…dare I say, like sacred space. Lighting up each room combats the shortness of light we get this time of year.

If you have never lived in New England then it is hard to imagine these days, as they grow shorter and shorter. Your every fiber craves sunshine and warmth. Your hibernation switch turns on and you have to make yourself leave your warm cave.

But this year I seem to be better at embracing these dark days and seeing them as an opportunity to create. I find great comfort on my couch next to the sparkling Christmas tree. There is peace here. There is nothing I “have” to do, other than work. The spirit of the empty nest has taken over and I find myself incredibly peaceful in that I don’t have to think about anyone or anything else other than myself. I don’t know if I have ever experienced this before and while I am sure that I must have in my youth, this feels very different. It is liberating and while I love and miss my kids, I am also settling into a space of my own where I am not constantly worrying and trying to fix things as much as I trust them to make their ways in the world. How cool is that?

Trust is something I have been thinking a lot about. There is so little trust in this crazy world it seems. We have to “prove” everything beyond the shadow of a doubt with numbers and statistics. My yoga helps remind me every day of how incredibly simple life could be if only we trusted that things will be the way they are to be. They just are and it is not up to us to try to “fix” everything.

This incessant “fixing” has taken over our schools and in that need to always fix, fix, fix we miss what is working. We miss those faces staring up at us from their desks, little sponges ready and waiting and all we are doing is running around trying to identify their deficits and thus putting out the little lights that are within each of them. It is a dark time in education. I really believe this to be true. It is dark because it is rampant with fear, high stakes and lack of humanity, but perhaps it will be in this time of darkness that greatness will emerge. “Out of darkness comes light…”

Recently I have even heard myself saying that I am not long for this work. This work that I love because of the heavy shadows that seems to hide in every corner, and then I have a class with a group of bright people who give me hope and help me to hang on…

I pulled out of the parking lot and into a glow of gorgeous pinks, oranges and hues of blues. The kind of sky you only wish you could capture in some way, but words and watercolors fall short of the miracle of what it is. And so I savor it as I drive home, breathing in every changing landscape bathed in such a beautiful sunset, trumpeting out this day in a glorious celebration of light dancing with light.

I smile at the sky and at the conversation left behind minutes earlier and wonder how did I get so lucky to do this “work”? Work isn’t even a good word for it because I love it so much. Work implies that it is grueling and hard, but for me it is just a natural flow of who I am, a better extension of myself than I am or ever could be in my ordinary life.

And in this darkness I find light. In my teachers, in their students, in the fact that they want to be there to discuss, to explore, to learn, to converse, to connect, to find support, to be together on a dark afternoon in December to look beyond the darkness and into the light in each other’s eyes. They light up my life.

Light and dark, good and evil, right and wrong. Opposites that are always living side by side. Without one we would not have the other and so in the spirit of the season I choose to see the light, the good and the right knowing their counterparts are right there alongside them allowing us the gift of seeing the grey in between because in the end it is both. It is always both and everything in between. Who or what is the light in your life?

“All is calm, all is bright.”

Mother and Daughter and Leukemia: Writing Heals…

Posted on April 26, 2014 by conversationeducation

I have been talking about a writing project with my daughter Emma for years now about our experience with leukemia. Today she sent me this piece and instantly I thought about piece I had written and submitted to the This I Believe website. My idea is to put our writing together matching our stories as seen through each other’s eyes. The reason we haven’t done this is because I am reticent to open up my vault of pages to her. I always protected her from whatever I could and yet she will be 21 in June. We both have done so much healing through our writing and our audience would be other families experiencing illness.

These pieces also make me think about what the world would be like if we saw each other as others see us.

Love, Laugher and Leukemia

By Mother

I believe in the power of change. I believe in going with the flow and embracing flexibility, fear, not knowing and inspiration through the process of change. I believe we cannot wait to do what is best because all we may have is today. I believe in passion and inspiration and impulsivity. I believe in intuition and improvisation as we work each moment to make it matter. I believe we have one life and one life only. This is not a dress rehearsal and so we must strive for every moment to count. I believe in joy, laughter and fun. I believe we can have all of these things as we embrace the process of life that is forever changing whether we like it or not. I believe there is so much in life that we cannot control that we should strive to make the very best of the things that we can! I believe that life is hard, but stories and laughter and connections with others make it worthwhile. And even though I believe all of these things and more, I still have to make an effort to do all of these things myself whether it is in each day, each hour or each moment. I believe we are here not to forget, but to work to always remember how lucky we really are. And that, my dear friends, is not always easy.

January 20, 1997, Emma was diagnosed with leukemia at the tender age of three and a half. This was the day I was redefined in ways I would never be able to comprehend. That day I left my class of 5th graders and never returned to the classroom as a full-time teacher. That day I was no longer a “normal” mom attending story hour. Playgrounds and swings were replaced with hospital hallways and medical procedures. Play dates and monkey bars were replaced with visiting hours and IV poles. That day leukemia moved into our lives and refused to leave. It set its big ass right down on the couch, cracked open a beer and settled in for the long haul. You could feel his presence when you walked in the door. He was there and whatever I tried to do I could not get him to leave fast enough. It was out of my control. There were days I never showered, days I thought I could not bear the suffering of my curly red-haired, pudgy handed baby and the absence of my 8 month old Zachary. But I did. I just did.

And after four and half years of living in fear, the unthinkable happened. Yes, the unthinkable does happen. Emma was 6 months to being declared “cured” when she relapsed. Yes six lousy months away from freedom and we found ourselves again put in the shackles of a diseased life. It was unbearable. Any ground we had made was gone, forgotten, as new protocols, names of chemotherapies, and the new idea of radiation to her head and spine were thrown at me I could not dodge them as I lodged myself into a corner in of a dark room at Mass General hospital and I just cried, rocking myself back and forth, back and forth knowing that I could not, would not be able to do this again. This and more. I could not do it. I knew it. But I did. I had no choice.

And for every platitude that was thrown at me in the name of comfort I can only reply. God DOES give people more than they can handle…trust me…this was too much. I am NOT a better person for having experienced this. I liked myself just fine thank you before this all happened. I am just a different person. We all have shit. It just comes in different forms. What we don’t have is control. It is not in our power. And as much as we want and yearn to think we have control the truth is that we just don’t. What we do have is the power to embrace each moment for what it is. In the same way we must treasure each individual for who they are and not who we want them to be. We must have our eyes open at all times so that we don’t miss the beauty that resides within the shit.

I can still see my beautiful bald baby sitting in the oversized hospital bed wearing her blue and white silk panda bear pajamas smiling over at me and telling me our new favorite show was on. I would laugh and settle in next to her as we watched those chosen ones run through the aisles of a mock grocery store and try to find items faster than their opponents. The show was as ridiculous as our lives had become, but being with her in that moment was a reality I was comfortable with. I had to accept that I myself could not control the cancer, but I could try to have some control of making it a better journey, to roll with her emotions, to laugh together, cry together, play cards for hours on end, do crafts, read and anything else you can imagine doing. And eventually…very eventually we settled onto the couch and pushed leukemia over and made room for ourselves on that couch too. It was not easy. But we did it.

And so this story that has been written. This story that defined me for so long, for so many years, it not my story any longer… It is a part of my history. It has been written. It is done. And so we move forward to the next story that is unwritten and the one after that knowing that we are all going to die. It is just a fact and looking death square in the blue eyes of my Emma I know this to be true. So we might as well laugh, create new stories, cry, go with the flow, take risks, be free, love, live and try to accept what life has to offer…if even for just a moment.

Emma, 8 years old with Dr. Weinstein and Patricia.

Luxury, Laughter and Leukemia

by Daughter, Emma

“Don’t tell Daddy,” I whispered, leaning forward to slip the words in her ear. The plump red strawberry was clasped between pudgy fingers like a jewel. I brought it to my lips, and the juice squelched as I bit down, slightly sour, but mostly sweet. Strawberry bliss in fluffy white heaven. My temporary heaven: an oversized bucket of cool-whip fresh for the dipping. Mom smiled, and I giggled, giddy. It was the first thing that tasted right in days. The container of ripe red strawberries lay entangled in the hospital sheets beside us. I licked my hands, sticky and pink, destroying the evidence. We were all alone in the white-walled hospital room on the seventeenth floor, the beeping pagers and shuffling rush of the doctors shut out by the thick wooden door. I leaned in close to her, ignoring the tug of the IV in my chest, and whispered, “Don’t tell Daddy!” At three years old, my mom was already my best friend.

We are “freakishly close.” My mother and I. I tell her everything, which I realize is odd for someone my age. We like to call ourselves the Gilmore Girls. It’s us against the world. Sure we don’t have the hundred- mile-an-hour banter down pat yet, and I still haven’t acquired a taste for coffee, but there’s no doubt there are similarities. I am the over-achieving, school-obsessed Rory, and she is my totally-awesome, life-loving Lorelei. We treasure our cozy pizza and movie nights, and dream of seeing the world together.

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Crunch. Crunch. Crrrunch! The snow beneath my feet is unpredictable, supporting my weight in some places, and in others collapsing completely. Our mission: to cross the tundra that is the Exeter soccer field. It is slow going. With every other step, I find myself up to my knees in snow. Even our golden retriever, Ruby, isn’t enjoying her walk as much as usual. She plods behind in our footsteps, leaving the difficult work to us. Deceivingly steady footfalls give way to sinking collapses. Step by step, side by side, we start out on our expedition.

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At three and a half years old, I was diagnosed with acute lymphoblastic leukemia. I underwent chemotherapy and went into remission, where I remained for nearly five years. I relapsed the summer after second grade. To completely eradicate the mutilated cells from my body, I had multiple surgeries, weeks of radiation, and barrels of Gatorade-colored chemo injected into me. I spent countless hours at Mass General Hospital, and for almost every one of those hours Mom was at my side. Like I said. Me and her. Against the world.

As long as she was there, and as long as the visits didn’t involve the “dizzy medicine” or too many unexpected tests, the overnight hospital stays weren’t that bad. I remember telling Mom this once before chemo treatment. She looked at me quizzically. “Really? Why?”

“Because, I feel like, when I’m there, everyone sort of treats me like I’m a princess,” I replied. And it was true. My favorite nurses, the child life specialist who worked in the playroom, even one of the cooks that frequently delivered my meals and snuck us extra desserts. But most of all, Mom made my experience in the hospital better than bearable, special even. We lived there for much of the time, and she turned it into strange home, splattering the room with color. Those overnight stays were almost like secret getaways where I got exclusive time with my favorite person.

I guarded this time together fiercely. My dad constantly offered to stay with me in the hospital so that my mom could spend more time with my baby brother and sleep in her own bed. But, I was stubborn. She was my knight, jester and beloved queen. She knew the drill. And we had secret traditions to uphold.

Mass General closed-circuit TV only had about ten channels, half of which were news. In the morning, cartoons were on PBS, but at night the options were much more limited. Mom and I learned to love the most absurd shows, such as Supermarket Sweep. Late at night, after Dad and Zach had left, along with the majority of doctors and nurses, Mom would curl up next to me in the dark, and we’d watch fools race around grocery stores for money. It was just one of the little luxuries of life stuck in the hospital that we discovered, just the two of us.

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When I tell people that I had cancer, I feel as if I am just asking for their pity. And yes, it was horrible much of the time. Needles, surgeries, nausea, radiation, head rushes, losing my hair, feeling weak, being unable to walk, extremely high fevers. But, I know that I would not be nearly as close to my mother as I am today if we hadn’t gone through those experiences together. No matter how hard I try, I can’t fathom a life without her by my side.

*******************************

“So, I don’t think you’re allowed to leave me next year,” Mom exclaims. Our march through the tundra isn’t getting any easier. The vast white plains seem to extend for miles ahead. “This means I’m going to have to live alone with just boys!” She looks over at me, pausing to give me a disgusted ‘they-have-cooties’ face. I chuckle.

“Yep” I reply. “I feel bad for you.” My foot plunges through the top layer of icy snow to yet another unseen hole in the ground. We are following the paths of two previous explorers, thinking it must be easier to follow in their footprints. The trails run parallel behind us, but out ahead they begin to diverge slightly.

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I am not my mother. So many people after meeting us insist that we look exactly alike. But I don’t see myself as my Mom. Whereas I fantasize about fame, glam, and changing the world in one fell swoop, she is happy pleasing herself and the people around her, helping one person at a time. I prefer fantasy and sci-fi, and dreaming up new worlds, while she prefers memoirs and realistic fiction. However, she sparked my love of books and writing to begin with. She taught me that I have a voice worth hearing.

****************************

One night when all four of us were home together, our parents put me and my brother to bed. Feeling better than normal, I was bouncing around the bathroom and in the hallway with Zach before Mom and Dad made us retreat to our own rooms. It was the usual routine. Dad would lie with Zach while he fell asleep, and Mom would rub my back, usually until she fell asleep. She sang to me. Jonathan Edwards and Carole King were my lullabies. Her words would fade to whispers as she drifted into dream world.

On this night, before she turned off the lights, I rolled over and looked straight into her soft, blue eyes. “Mumma?” I asked. “Am I going to die?” The question had just occurred to me for the first time, and surprisingly, it didn’t scare me. But I wanted to know, and, no older than four, I looked for her guidance as I had with everything else. I knew she would have the answer, just like she had the answers to all the rest.

“Do you think you’re going to die?” She looked right back at me, never flinching or looking away. Her voice was tender, inquiring, soothing. She was asking me, I realized. And suddenly, the power had shifted over to me. My opinion mattered, in this moment, more than anything else. I had the last say, and my reply truly was the right answer.

“No.” And I didn’t.

***************************

I was absent for most of third grade, worn out from treatment, infections and trips to Boston. Even when I did make it in, I hardly ever stayed for the entire day. When I was home, I lived on the green woolen couch in our wine-colored living room. I watched endless hours of mindless television, too tired and queasy even to read my favorite books. Nancy Drew and Harry Potter – the mysteries remained unsolved.

The pile of schoolwork next to me grew higher and higher. I looked at it with disgust, as if I was staring at my own weakness. Used to being one of the smartest in the class, I had no idea what any of those handouts and worksheets were about. Dad encouraged me on the days when I didn’t go to school to try and make a dent in the pile, and I tried. But the lessons in the books were impenetrable, and my endurance never lasted long. Everything was different in my world. I was losing control. Even my room seemed like a distant memory. Dolls left untouched, and toys left unorganized. One time I crawled to the top of the stairs and cried. I was helpless and worn and everything in my own home seemed foreign, every task like work.

“Listen to your body.” Mom would say. I knew best what I could do, and therefore I had the last say. She gave me the power to stand up and speak for myself. I let the pile grow; resting was the first priority.

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Throwing down my hundred-pound backpack, I made the house shake. Mom asked how my weekend looked, and I replied with the usual complaints and a long list of things to do. It’s the first week of winter term, but it feels like I never left. So much to do. So little time.

She looked at the backpack, bulging at the seams on the floor, and then up at my worn face. “I dare you, at some point before you graduate, to get a bad grade in a class.” Then she said, “Let’s take the dog for a walk in the snow.”

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My mother is a free spirit. As my dad says, when he first met her she was a “granola.” Long, frizzy, dirty-blonde hair and baggy, earthy-toned clothes. She’s known since she was a toddler she wanted to be a teacher, and her passions have always been literature and writing. Although her hair is shorter now, and her clothes blend in a little better, my mother is still pretty much a hippie. Our house is filled with words: books, framed poetry, and wall hangings that say “believe,”“hope,” and “intend.” Peace signs and angel cards, heart-shaped rocks collected from the beach, and cairns. She is powerful and very opinionated. She isn’t afraid to share, argue and defend her claims before eventually agreeing to disagree. She believes in the power of intention; that if we just believe in something enough, it will happen.

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“They’re slobs! And they’re going to drive me crazy! Who am I going to complain to once you’re gone?” Her voice is shrill, and slips even higher at the end as she pulls her foot out of a particularly deep footprint.

“I know, right?” Part of my sarcasm is lost as I call back to her. Her face has turned red from the effort. Our different routes have spread several feet apart now, and up ahead the crusty powder is almost untouched. The paths already trodden have all but disappeared. It’s up to us now to pave our own ways.

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The hospital was an unanticipated safe-haven for us. Mom was less worried about something going wrong, and for me, the contrasts between sick and healthy became less apparent. When I was there, I could concentrate on getting better. I didn’t have to compare myself to my former self, or to others around me. In the hospital I was still weak, but no one saw it. Within those walls, I was normal, or better than normal, a princess.

I hated food. Another one of the glorious effects of chemotherapy is that it changes your taste buds. I lost half of by body weight. My favorite foods, pizza included, tasted simply wrong, and time after time, I struck out. I would have sudden epiphanies, when random meals or snacks would become obsessions. That one thing I hadn’t tried – it just might be the one thing that still tasted the same. Pasta with cheese and butter, goldfish (which my uncle went on a wild goose chase to find in Boston), chicken pot pie, and humus replaced pizza, grilled cheese, and peanut butter and jelly. Mom did whatever it took to get me to eat. Even if it meant strawberries and cool whip for lunch. I was the princess.

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The princess sometimes had to leave the tower. Unlike the seventeenth and eighteenth floors that had become familiar and which were filled with smiling faces waiting to please me, the waiting and pre-surgery rooms on the lower floors of the hospital were scary. None of my little comforts were allowed in this cold, swift-moving wing. The moment we got there we were swept into a changing room where I had to strip off all of my own clothes and replace them with a stiff hospital gown that left me cold and exposed. My parents had to wear alienating blue scrubs and masks. The room down the hall was filled with machines, and abnormally tall hospital beds. Once I was placed on top of one, I was trapped. And everyone and everything whizzed along around me. The colorful bears and balloons painted on the walls were more creepy than comforting. A preschool gone wrong. Mom’s concerned eyes and liquid voice were my only consolations.

I despised the anesthesia and the entire prepping process. I was hysterical in my fear. I knew what was coming and I never got used to it. An alien doctor pulled up a stool and a syringe and ejected fluid into my IV that sent my head spinning. The medicine immediately vibrated the insides of my brains. Mom’s voice and firm hand in mine began to fade as I squeezed my eyes shut and struggled to remain conscious. I was leaving her, and there was nothing I could do about it. Washing away, it was all I could do to keep her there. I called out to her, begging for her to help me, to come to my rescue like always as I slipped away. “I’m diiiizzzzyyyyyy….!!!!”

I would awake from those artificial slumbers in a completely different place. The nurses once again were smiley and eager to provide ginger ale and saltine crackers. The happy bears were gone, and the world was no longer in a hurry to send me away. Post-op was filled with new faces, new setup, and new wallpaper. But she was still there by my side. I always came back, and she was always there waiting. Her tired face flush with relief. Her soft fingers laced with mine. When the groggy left my head, we started talking about the shopping trips that we would take after. Wherever I wanted to go. The Christmas Tree Shop was my reward.

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I had a lot of nightmares when I was sick. I would wake up in my room at home, and have visions of giant alien monsters coming to get me. Sweaty, my heart pounding, and frozen with fear, I would scream and scream down the stairs, calling out for my Mommy, my savior. Enclosed in her arms, nothing could go wrong. I was safe from all the nightmares and from harsh reality as well. Vanquishing the monsters and returning to peace.

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“Wanna Gee-Gee?” is a common question in our house. We own all the seasons, and have watched them all the way through multiple times. We plop down on the couch, and snuggle up under a blanket, our toes still cold from the walk. I switch on the DVD player, and we start belting out the theme song. “If you’re out on the road, feeling lonely and so cold…” She shivers as she takes a sip of hot tea, and we both smirk as we catch each other’s eyes.

It still hasn’t hit me yet that I am a senior. Although I am definitely beginning to understand senioritis, I haven’t really started thinking that much about leaving next year. I guess I am in denial. Although I spend the majority of my time on campus when school is in session, I am still a day student, and in many ways a homebody. I have left home before, for summer camp, and I know that I can make it on my own. I know I can carry the huge backpack around day after day. She has taught me to be strong. Still, I am afraid to leave her, to venture into the white unknown alone. My consolation is knowing that when I return, she will always be there, waiting. “Winter, spring, summer, or fall, all I’ve got to do is call, and she’ll be there.”

Emma and I on her 16th birthday.

What We Do In New England: Talk about The Fickle Nature of Winter

Posted on February 17, 2014 by conversationeducation

The Day in January that Snow Patties fell from the sky!
by Tomasen

Life in New Hampshire is such that when the end of January comes along, many of us look pale, tired and have large dark circles under our eyes. Others are sick, have been sick or are getting sick. Many are irritable, between vacations and stuck inside without recesses because somewhere along the line we stopped letting our kids out to recess if it goes below 32 degrees. We LIVE here! Let the kids out, if even for 10 minutes to get blasted and blessed with some fresh air, be it arctic air to bring them back to life disperse some of those germs into the great outdoors.

Even the trees feel Januaryied!

So this year it occurred to me that everyone looks and is “Januaryied”. Yes, Januaryied. It is my new verb and the funniest part is that when I ask the simple question, “Are you Januaryied?” most just respond with a look of “why yes, I am totally Januaryied.” No explanation needed.

It is at this time that most of us dream of white sandy beaches, palm trees and yes those lovely drinks with umbrellas in them. And in this age of Face book we can see others who ARE on sandy beaches, wearing bathing suits, and nursing sunburns…oh the sting of envy is a painful one indeed.

A Walk in the Woods by Tomasen

Winter Sky reveals a glimpse of light.
by Tomasen

We can’t help ourselves. We are stuck in the tundra with no escape from the frigid temperatures we have lived in and through, with smatterings of 45 degree days that melt away the snow leaving the next frigid 10 below day with ice everywhere and very little white snow to adorn much of anything, leaving bare, grey tree branches poking the underbelly of the sky. It is dreary. It is forever grey. It is January.

But alas, we made it through January and now find ourselves in February. And this February has been a doozy. Another day, another snowstorm and what used to feel magical now just seems like another chore that has to be dealt with. Snow shoveling, roof raking to avoid those incessant ice dams, and clearing off the car just one more time before leaving. February, where one would think we are that much closer to the end of the long winter. The days begin to lengthen and one can actually see outside at 5 o’clock.

Miss Ruby Frolicking in the snow.
by Tomasen

This winter I have attempted to walk my dog, Ruby where I end up in the field in time to watch the sun set. I can’t see sunset from my house, and this new routine has allowed me to see that additional minute or so that we begin to gather each day. What I have noticed most is the light, the evening light that inspired this poem:

In The Blue Hour of Evening Light

evening light

comes too soon

against the blue hued

mounds of snow

the light no longer lingers

but quickly dips and dives

into the warmth of the horizon

Evening Light by Tomasen

evening light

a glowing luminous light

proclaiming the passing of yet

another day

evening light

hangs in the distance

momentarily suspended

as my cold feet stand rooted

Evening Light
by Tomasen

in the deep snow holding me tight

from diving down to catch the light

and hold onto it desperate to

keep the dark away

evening light

casts short shadows that

play with the snowlight

broadcasting indescribable pinks, purples

More Evening Light by Tomasen

Hues of Blues
by Tomasen

and so many hues of blues

for all to watch

if they are looking

evening light is the light I choose

to walk the pup

to pay homage to the end

of yet another day

to rejoice in day’s visit

that lingered a little bit longer today

evening light

I dream of your summer stays

when I come to life

and I can dillydally with you

into the night.

evening light…

There is hope in February and that hope is even better when coupled with a bonus snow day like today. Kids are giddy with the prospect of no school as they wait in anticipation of that final phone call, or these days, tweets! Teachers can take a breath and slow down and let their defenses down for a day of home in an effort to ward off all of those nasty bugs, and flu’s spread so easily within the brick and mortar of schools where kids are constantly coughing, sneezing and wiping their noses on their sleeves. Man, those noses just never seem to stop running. Blech!

I still get that excitement about a snow day because a snow day is a lazy day: it gives me permission to read and write and build a fire and just “be” all day long. Like a kid I can’t wait to go out into the newly fallen whiteness and feel the wonderful moisture in the air. Snow is magical again. And as much as I have been dreaming of those warmer climates, I don’t know if I could ever imagine living in a place where there was never snow! But if you ask me this when I am Januaryied, you can be sure my answer will be that I can’t wait for the day when I move to a warmer year-round climate, where I don’t have to endure the harsh, frigid everydayness of winter.

Zach and Ruby on one of MANY snowdays.
by Tomasen

And so in honor of this snow day I leave you with Billy Collins and his poem, Snow Day. Enjoy.

Snow Day

BY BILLY COLLINS

Today we woke up to a revolution of snow,

its white flag waving over everything,

the landscape vanished,

not a single mouse to punctuate the blankness,

and beyond these windows

the government buildings smothered,

schools and libraries buried, the post office lost

under the noiseless drift,

the paths of trains softly blocked,

the world fallen under this falling.

In a while, I will put on some boots

and step out like someone walking in water,

and the dog will porpoise through the drifts,

and I will shake a laden branch

sending a cold shower down on us both.

But for now I am a willing prisoner in this house,

a sympathizer with the anarchic cause of snow.

I will make a pot of tea

and listen to the plastic radio on the counter,

as glad as anyone to hear the news

that the Kiddie Corner School is closed,

the Ding-Dong School, closed.

the All Aboard Children’s School, closed,

the Hi-Ho Nursery School, closed,

along with—some will be delighted to hear—

the Toadstool School, the Little School,

Little Sparrows Nursery School,

Little Stars Pre-School, Peas-and-Carrots Day School

the Tom Thumb Child Center, all closed,

and—clap your hands—the Peanuts Play School.

So this is where the children hide all day,

These are the nests where they letter and draw,

where they put on their bright miniature jackets,

all darting and climbing and sliding,

all but the few girls whispering by the fence.

And now I am listening hard

in the grandiose silence of the snow,

trying to hear what those three girls are plotting,

what riot is afoot,

which small queen is about to be brought down.

You got the MOVES! Writing Non-Fiction with Voice, Choice and Clarity in Creativity

Posted on February 11, 2014 by conversationeducation

“Your assignment for today class is to write your state report in the voice of a snowman.”

“ A snowman?” you ask.

“ Yes, a snowman.”

This was simulated out of a conversation I had recently with a 3^rd grade teacher where somewhere along the line someone thought it would be a creative idea to assign all 3rd grade students to write their state research reports in the voice of a snowman. A snowman? Yes. A snowman.

“A snowman?” I asked. Yes, a snowman. What does the voice of a snowman sound like? I wonder, as distant memories of Frosty’s voice pop into my head, “Haaaaaappy Birrrrrthdaaaaaay!!!” What do snowmen have to do with state reports? What if you have the state of Hawaii or Arizona where snowmen do not reside? Would it be a melting voice? A snowman? Yes, a snowman.

And then to top it all off the report was to then be written in the shape of, yes, you guessed it, a snowman. Now call me crazy, but wouldn’t it make more sense to have a state report in the shape of the state the report is on? Or perhaps just simply shapeless unless the writer chooses to make the report in any shape at all?

Wherever this idea came from, one must recognize that its’ intent, I believe, was to allow for creativity in writing these reports. My hunch is that what got in the way of this good intention was inexperience in writing, the writing process and how creativity can be discovered and is easily accessible to all writers through the study of authors and illustrators in ways that make sense for the writer and the purpose of the writing project. So many of us grew up without any writing instruction at all and many feel uncertain about how to teach writing. Most teachers see themselves as readers but very few will identify themselves as writers.

So this 3^rd grade teacher, Ashley and I decided to begin the journey encouraging students to create their own books on the states they were studying. We began this unit of study with an introduction to a non fiction book called, A President from Hawaii where we asked the students to read like writers and envision how they might use some of these techniques, or MOVES in their own writing. I read, did some thinking out loud, but not much before the students began to identify the many moves made by both the writer and the illustrator while Ashley charted their thinking on the white board next to us all.

As usual I found myself marveling at the kids “reading” of this text. Amy recognized that the illustrator used a variety of techniques which included a background image that was either watercolored or collaged and then actual photographs and images were layered on top of that.

Joe saw that the photographs were delicately framed in bamboo, but not on all pages. When we wondered why the illustrator might have made that move Michael wondered, “is the bamboo only shown on those pages where there were natural scenes in the background where bamboo really grows?” And in looking back we identified that it was shown on the images of mountains and beaches, but not on the pages that showed cities.

Shane talked about the bold words. Michael noticed how the information was embedded within the text. I wondered going into the class if this book had enough moves in it, but of course they went deeper than anticipated.

Next, I shared a variety of non-fiction texts and asked them to take some sticky notes and do some noticing with a partner and then come back to the larger group and share one on the moves made by either the author or the illustrator that they might try.

I like this word, move, because it is more accessible to students, teachers and even non-writers. In most professional texts these “moves” are referred to as craft, and the goal is to identify the different”craft” used by an author. I myself I have used the word craft in my teaching but often found it did not resonate with those who were not engaged heavily in the process of writing already. And by all means if “craft” resonates with you and your students then stay with it. Katie Wood Ray’s description of Craft in her book, Wondrous Words is beautiful. I am always seeking alternative ways in for writers.

Photo Credit: craftidea.info

The word, Craft, carries with it a sense of “crafty” in that it is something that is part of an artistic process and that some are better at it than others, or that some have a “gift” for it. Those with that gift are “writers” and those who were not lucky enough to be born with an affinity for “craft” are not writers. Craft can be a loaded word in that it also has an underlying assumption that there is a “right” way to make the craft. (See paper plate snowman) One teacher explained that because she didn’t know what craft was that it automatically distanced her from writing and made her feel even more inferior. She did not see herself as a writer and the idea of craft did not help her to move away from that identity.

The process of identification is a critical one when working with writers. Once someone actually manifests the idea of “I am a writer” then all things begin to change, as they “see” themselves as writers they find the confidence to play a little more, to worry a little less about doing it “right”, and discover the freedom to explore and try on some of the moves of others writers.

Image Credit: http://www.sodahead.com

“Moves” seem to be more available to some. Identifying these moves actually moves writers closer to that place of identification. Anyone can try out a move. In asking students (be they 3rd graders, 33 year-olds or 63 year olds) to try a”craft” is something that some cannot identify with. Trying a move in your writing is like trying a dance move. It takes out that ethereal sense of “writer” and brings it down to earth, making writing available to writers of all shapes and sizes.

When the students regrouped to share their findings, their books were loaded with sticky notes and “moves” they would like to possibly try. Each set of partners shared one move that impressed them the most. The possibilities seemed endless.

So when I returned to that classroom I was eager to find out what had transpired over the week and what I found when I walked in was a very busy writing workshop with paper and scissors and computers and crayons and markers and pencils and busy writers abound. There was a buzz in the room and so I began conferring to find out more.

What I discovered was that the “move” most decided to try was to write their reports in the “voice” of something significant from their chosen state be it the state bird, produce or in the Hawaii report in the voice of the waves. I had to laugh because this project started with the idea of voice and seemed to be ending here as well. The idea of personifying something from their state took on a life of it’s own so much so that the narrator from Alabama, “Fuzzy the Peach” actually “visited” the narrator, the Cactus Wren, state bird of Arizona, on the pages of the Arizona book. So now these kids were learning not only about their states, but about the states their classmates were studying as well. They were collaborating and sharing ideas and admiring each other’s work and ideas during the process, finding an immediate audience with authentic feedback. One gets an idea from another and it snowballs. It was infectious

I also noted how all of the writers were in such different places and stages and that for some, the gift of time to really work on an illustration with incredible depth and detail was appreciated. “I love making this book!” Josh told me. When I asked him why he said that it was fun, relaxing and enjoyable to show his information in a book. I could see from his writing alone that it was not something he excelled at as his letters looked young and his words were far and few in his research, but by focussing on what he loved about his state of California, the sports teams he was creating the most detailed images in the room.

Image Credit: inkygirl.com

I also realize having the eyes of the occasional observer are different eyes than those of the teacher who has a list a mile long of things to get done with her students and that handing that time over, even when we know it is valuable, can feel too long or too free or too unproductive. Fortunately, this young, intuitive teacher, Ashley, understands and sees the value in what each child is doing and how individual the process of each student is. It takes patience. Then it takes more patience. It is not easy for every student and there are always those who struggle, those who seem to be wasting time and those who are not engaged. It takes time and it takes a great leap of faith and trust in ones’ self and the kids themselves.

Finally, I noticed was how sacred the oaktag was to these kids. Some cut theirs into smaller pieces to make more pages, others just talked about how lucky they were to be using such expensive paper and how it was different than any other “paper” because it was so sturdy and perfect for book-making. One girl stroked the smoothness of the tagboard telling me how she just LOVED the feeling of this paper.

All of these things, all of these tools, all of these conversations, all of these moments are part of being a writer, of the writing process of a working Writer’s Workshop. It is messy, it is chaotic, it is time consuming, but it is organized chaos where the voices, choices, creativity and sounds of the writers are front and center and the snowmen, well, they are out where they belong, on the playground.

Divergent, College Apps and Mindset all Rolled into One, or Not

Posted on January 31, 2014 by conversationeducation

We find ourselves in the tortuous waiting period, when college applications are floating amongst the millions, while we sit in waiting for the big envelopes (you hope!) or the small letters to arrive in the mail. Will he or won’t he. What else could we have done to increase his chances in the big world? Will he have the opportunities and choices that he needs to make his life one where he can maintain his passions and earn a living doing what he loves? What if he doesn’t get in? What if he does? What is right for him? Does he even know?

I am currently submerged in the Divergent series, and already this college process seems so similar to the “Choosing Ceremony” in this book where at 16 one must decide his or her fate forever based on what faction he or she chooses. If that 16 year old chooses a faction other than where they were raised then they lose their families forever. It is a life or death kind of decision. There is no going back.

And if I am feeling this way, I can only imagine what all of these kids are feeling. One of Zach’s friends even said to me, “I didn’t realize that my choices as a freshman and sophomore would influence and impact the rest of my life.” Already he spoke of regret and wishing he could do it over and yet when I really pushed him on the subject and asked him if he really would have done it differently he realizes he could not or would not have done so.

And then I realize that I am buying into this whole thing when really I need to change my mindset and believe what I have always believed about kids and education and what matters. Carol Dweck, in her book, Mindset explains,

“For twenty years, my research has shown that the view you adopt for yourself profoundly affects the way you lead your life. It can determine whether you become the person you want to be and whether you accomplish the things you value. How does this happen? How can a simple belief have the power to transform your psychology and, as a result, your life?”

“Believing that your qualities are carved in stone — the fixed mindset — creates an urgency to prove yourself over and over. If you have only a certain amount of intelligence, a certain personality, and a certain moral character — well, then you’d better prove that you have a healthy dose of them. It simply wouldn’t do to look or feel deficient in these most basic characteristics.”

She goes on to say,

“I’ve seen so many people with this one consuming goal of proving themselves—in the classroom, in their careers, and in their relationships. Every situation calls for a confirmation of their intelligence, personality, or character. Every situation is evaluated: Will I succeed or fail? Will I look smart or dumb? Will I be accepted or rejected? Will I feel like a winner or a loser? . . .”

But wait, there is another way to see.

“There’s another mindset in which these traits are not simply a hand you’re dealt and have to live with, always trying to convince yourself and others that you have a royal flush when you’re secretly worried it’s a pair of tens. In this mindset, the hand you’re dealt is just the starting point for development. This growth mindset is based on the belief that your basic qualities are things you can cultivate through your efforts. Although people may differ in every which way — in their initial talents and aptitudes, interests, or temperaments — everyone can change and grow through application and experience.

Do people with this mindset believe that anyone can be anything, that anyone with proper motivation or education can become Einstein or Beethoven? No, but they believe that a person’s true potential is unknown (and unknowable); that it’s impossible to foresee what can be accomplished with years of passion, toil, and training.”

“Why waste time proving over and over how great you are, when you could be getting better? Why hide deficiencies instead of overcoming them? Why look for friends or partners who will just shore up your self-esteem instead of ones who will also challenge you to grow? And why seek out the tried and true, instead of experiences that will stretch you? The passion for stretching yourself and sticking to it, even (or especially) when it’s not going well, is the hallmark of the growth mindset. This is the mindset that allows people to thrive during some of the most challenging times in their lives.’

I love the idea that one can always grow and change and learn more, that “the hand you’re dealt is just the starting point for development” and that what we do with that hand is what matters.

The rub is that our world and the world of applying to college is grounded in a fixed mindset, a black and white world where a person’s only way to “show” who they really are is through numbers, and stats and one essay. It is the ultimate in trying to “prove” that you are worthy of a higher education. It emphasizes what Dweck is arguing against, “Believing that your qualities are carved in stone — the fixed mindset — creates an urgency to prove yourself over and over. If you have only a certain amount of intelligence, a certain personality, and a certain moral character — well, then you’d better prove that you have a healthy dose of them.”

This flies in the face of who Zachary really is, a person of possibility where anything he sets his mind to he will make happen or as Dweck writes, ‘everyone can change and grow through application and experience.’

Those reading my son’s applications cannot see him as he sits and studies how to create the perfect ski ramp considering angles and pitches and speed. They cannot see the constant tinkering her does around his passions and how all consumed he becomes. That he believes anything is possible or as Dweck writes, “they believe that a person’s true potential is unknown (and unknowable); that it’s impossible to foresee what can be accomplished with years of passion, toil, and training.”

Nope, the college application is the result of a fixed system where certain numbers are king.

Zachary, 5 years old.

But if I truly believe in what Dweck is trying to say then no matter what happens in this process Zachary will have choices, hands will be dealt and regardless of that hand he can and will grow from it all. And while I believe this does give me some relief, if I am totally honest, I cannot wait for the process to come to an end, to know what is in hand and to move from there.

“I believe in ordinary acts of bravery, in the courage that drives one person to stand up for another.” ~ Divergent

Bad Raps: In Poetry, Social Media and Of Course, The Common Core

Posted on January 20, 2014 by conversationeducation

Poetry and Social Media have both had their share of bad raps.

The poetry of our (collective) past was often presented as something that was only available to those chosen few who may or may not find the many levels of hidden meanings tucked in between the lines. Every time I bring poetry to my teachers, there is a group squirm in the room as everyone shifts in their seats and falls back into their past experiences with poetry.

You will find poetry nowhere unless you bring some of it with you.
– Joseph Joubert

Poetry was not available and many hold fast to the belief that it still isn’t. But thanks to modern day poets such as Billy Collins, Mary Oliver and even those of old such as e.e. cummings, poetry can be accessible to all. With a little patience and practice some even come to enjoy poetry.

We just need to shift out of our old habit of thinking we “won’t get it” and realize that what we take from the poem is enough. It may just be the sound of the words or how they are arranged; it may be a line that strikes the soul, or an adverse reaction to an image. Whatever it is, it is for us. Poetry can move people to their own “edges” if you will, asking them to work and think a little bit more and little bit harder, what does that mean?

“Poetry is a deal of joy and pain and wonder, with a dash of the dictionary.” Khalil Gibran

Social Media has also gotten a bad rap, especially when we are having conversations about our youth. And while we might be concerned about the growing evolutionary thumbs of this next generation and their inability to communicate face to face without a device are worthy concerns, there is the upside to this wonderful world of technology.

Credit to http://www.thedrum.com –

One is the meeting of poetry and social media I encountered these past couple of weeks as poetry swept it’s way onto Facebook and flooded my feed with fabulous poets and poetry. The way it worked was simple. Read a poem posted by a friend and if you liked that poem they would send you a poet and you in turn posted a poem by that assigned poet.

I can only wonder how many hits poetry.org and other such sites got this poetry month. It was a treat to go onto Facebook wondering what poem or poet you would see next. It was also interesting to see what new poets might come up. And even if the poem was one I knew, it was nice to be revisited by old favorites. Some even went so far as to research their assigned poet, posting photos and biographical information as well as a poem. There were side conversations about how many poets some knew and how thrilled others were to be introduced to new poets. Others felt “out of their league” but quickly immersed themselves in finding the perfect poem. Some began the process of identification as one who likes and dare I even say might consider writing poetry.

I can’t tell you how many poems I added to my poetry folder for future teaching! There was a crazy wonderful poetry community created through social media with people across the country that never would have been possible without social media. It was, if I may say so myself, pretty damn cool!

And then we come to the Common Core where poetry is not mentioned, named or listed in any categories in the entire document. And while the intent was not to eliminate poetry, that is the interpretation of many. Schools are reading this document as a curriculum even when it clearly states that it is NOT! But the subtle, or not so subtle message underlying the omission of poetry is that what is not listed will not be tested; therefore precious time will not be wasted teaching it. Schools without Shel Silvserstien, Prelutsky, Roald Dahl, A.A. Milne, and Sharon Creech will be very sad places.

While I realize you have all heard me rant and rave on about the CCSS nation wide hold on education, I do not believe I have given it’s history justice and so I direct you here to a link where Diane Ravitch lays out the history of the Common Core and it’s daunting predecessors.

Diane Ravitch

I believe this history gives context to why we are where we are and how incredibly insipid it is. I believe anyone who has any stock in the public educational system needs to read this. I would like to see this article go viral. The more we know the more we can begin to understand what is at stake.

And so I leave you with my assigned poet (by the fabulous Children’s poet, Amy Ludwig VanDerwater, who you must check out at this link) and the words of ee cummings: enjoy, savor and just take it in for what it is, let it linger on your tongue for the sweetness that it is and nothing more or less.

e.e. cummings

E. E. Cummings (1894 – 1962)

I Will Wade Out

i will wade out
till my thighs are steeped in burning flowers
I will take the sun in my mouth
and leap into the ripe air
Alive
with closed eyes
to dash against darkness
in the sleeping curves of my body
Shall enter fingers of smooth mastery
with chasteness of sea-girls
Will i complete the mystery
of my flesh
I will rise
After a thousand years
lipping
flowers
And set my teeth in the silver of the moon

And as the world goes, I read this post to my daughter, Emma and she reminded me that her choir in High School sang this poem as composed by Eric Whitacre. Love the connections! And while we don’t have a recording of her choir, here is a youtube link to another choir singing it. Glorious!

I Will Wade Out

Let the Sunshine In!

Posted on January 3, 2014 by conversationeducation

Sunrise over Cienfuegos, Cuba
Photo by Tomasen

Well, talk about the perfect time to spread some warmth and let a little sunshine in as I am hunkered down in the midst of yet another New England snowstorm. I am incredibly humbled and honored that both Vicki Vinton and Renee Dinnerstein nominated me for the Sunshine Award, Thank you! I love the idea spreading some light and warmth amongst bloggers. I knew nothing about this award until now.

The Sunshine Award was started by Matt Renwick, an elementary principal in Wisconsin (@readbyexample). Here are the rules Matt lists in his post: Acknowledge the nominating blogger. Share 11 random facts about yourself.  Answer the 11 questions the nominating blogger has created for you. List 11 bloggers. They should be bloggers you believe deserve some recognition and a little blogging love! Post 11 questions for the bloggers you nominate to answer and let all the bloggers know they have been nominated. (You cannot nominate the blogger who nominated you.)

So here we go…

Eleven Random Facts

When I was a sophomore in college I moved in with my boyfriend (my parents didn’t know who I was living with) in Boston where I sold waterless cookware door to door in Somerville, Mass.
My daughter had childhood leukemia, twice. (She is now 20!)
I love lipstick. My favorite, Purplicious, by Revlon.
I love music and wish I had the talent to become a singer/songwriter.
I drove an ice-cream truck in the beautiful city of Revere, Mass.
I taught horseback riding lessons and witnessed the birth of my own horse born one cold night in March. Her name was Maple Sugar, Mae.
I have always been secretly thrilled that I got a son and a daughter on the first try!
I hate Nancy Drew.
I really enjoyed reading the Shades of Grey books and am looking forward to seeing what they do with the movie. (For shame!)
I am a middle child in a world where we are becoming more and more rare. (Average American household has 2.1 children) I think the world needs middle children.
“Jammies” are my favorite time of the day.

Questions from Vicki.

What book would you want with you if you were stranded on a deserted island?

Hmmm…it is hard to narrow this one down, but I think I might just have to pick The Bean Trees by Barbara Kingsolver, no, I would pick The Red Tent by Anita Shrive, no, I would pick my ipad and bring all of my books with me! Is that cheating?.

Where do you write?

Everywhere.

What do you do to recharge?

Kundalini yoga. I love it and am actually enrolled in a yearlong course to become a kundalini yoga teacher. For me it is highly introspective, meditative and includes lots of chants, music, and sounds such as those from the gong. The healing of sound is amazing. I never leave a practice feeling unchanged in some small or large way.

What was your favorite book as a child and why did you love it?

Green Eggs and Ham By Dr. Suess because it is one of the only books I remember my parents reading to us.

If you could have dinner (or coffee or drinks) with anyone living or dead, who would it be and what would you want to ask him or her?

My Dad. Having just died on September 23^rd I would ask him if he was at peace wherever or everywhere he is and what it is like.

Do you have a quote that you keep (in your mind, a notebook, a pocket, your desk, etc.) that captures something that seems important to you? If so, what is it?

“Imagination is more important than knowledge.” Albert Einstein.

Questions from Renee.

What books are you presently reading?

I am currently reading Creating Innovators by Tony Wegner. It is one of the most hopeful books I have read in a while. I am also reading The Tea Rose by Jennifer Donnolly when I need some “beach reading” breaks!

Who was the most influential person in your life?

Today I would have to say my Dad.

Do you have a secret vice that you might be willing to share?

Wine, food and more wine.

What is your ideal vacation?

One where I can see new things with people I love filled with adventure, the unknown and new discoveries everywhere you go.

What inspired you to enter the field of education?

I was always going to be a teacher. I used to “play school” for hours by myself in my bedroom. I still even have all of the grade pages and notes I had on all of my imaginary students. It is in my blood.

Is there a work of art of a piece of music that has left a strong impact on you?

I have to answer this question with a question, what hasn’t? Truth be told, I am easily moved! Quirky, but true.

Okay, so now for the fun part. Here are the blogs that I nominate for the Sunshine Award!!

Sunrise Over Cork, Ireland
Photo by Tomasen

Jaclyn Karabinas at Soul Strikers

Deborah Brasket at Living on the Edge of the Wild

Mica Angela Hendricks at the busy mockingbird

David Chura at Kids in the System

Christopher Lehman at Christopher Lehman

Christine Mcarneyy at an educator’s re-education

Tony Baldasaro at Tony Baldasaro

So now Jaclyn, Deborah, Mica, David, Christopher, Christine and Tony here are your 11 Questions. Have fun.

What is your passion and how does it show up in your life?
What are your 3 favorite movies?
What are your 3 favorite books?
What are your 3 favorite songs or artists?
Describe your most interesting date.
If you could live anywhere in the world where would that be and why?
What is your favorite food and why?
What is your perfect day?
What book or books are you reading right now?
If you could have dinner (or coffee or drinks) with anyone living or dead, who would it be and what would you want to ask him or her?
What is your ideal vacation?

Well, that was fun. Looking forward to reading what others have to say!

Conversation Education

Talking through what it means to lead a literate life and beyond.

Category Archives: Uncategorized

40 Day Challenge is on!

Remembering Jean Robbins

Writers Take Flight: My Forever Books On Writing

Gathering the Light

Mother and Daughter and Leukemia: Writing Heals…

What We Do In New England: Talk about The Fickle Nature of Winter

You got the MOVES! Writing Non-Fiction with Voice, Choice and Clarity in Creativity

Divergent, College Apps and Mindset all Rolled into One, or Not

Let the Sunshine In!

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