Tag Archives: Reading

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

Posted on by
8
Image

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.

Image

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.

Image

A Walk in the Woods by Tomasen

Image

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.

Image

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

Image

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

Image

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

Image

More Evening Light by Tomasen

Image

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.

Image

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.

Let the Sunshine In!

Posted on by
1
Image

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

  1.  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.
  2. My daughter had childhood leukemia, twice.  (She is now 20!)
  3. I love lipstick.  My favorite, Purplicious, by Revlon.
  4. I love music and wish I had the talent to become a singer/songwriter.
  5. I drove an ice-cream truck in the beautiful city of Revere, Mass.
  6.  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.
  7.  I have always been secretly thrilled that I got a son and a daughter on the first try!
  8.  I hate Nancy Drew.
  9.   I really enjoyed reading the Shades of Grey books and am looking forward to seeing what they do with the movie.  (For shame!)
  10. 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.
  11. “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 23rd 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!!  

Image

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.

  1. What is your passion and how does it show up in your life?
  2. What are your 3 favorite movies?
  3. What are your 3 favorite books?
  4. What are your 3 favorite songs or artists?
  5. Describe your most interesting date.
  6. If you could live anywhere in the world where would that be and why?
  7. What is your favorite food and why?
  8. What is your perfect day?
  9. What book or books are you reading right now?
  10. 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?
  11. What is your ideal vacation?

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

Learning as a Deeply Personal Experience: On Teaching Readers and Writers

Posted on by
18

The buzz of Mentor Texts has been around for quite a while now and while I like this idea, what I don’t like is that our young writers are often instructed to use a particular mentor text for a given time as assignments.  Using a particular structure to do this, instead of exposing them to a variety of ideas and texts and then helping and guiding our students to figure out what would work best for them, the writers.

What would happen if we asked our young writers to first think about what it was they wanted to say, to write about, to read about, to discover and then come up with the best way to express this?

When my daughter was first diagnosed with leukemia I kept a journal and wrote down every single little detail of our experience.  It was exhausting to get onto those pages all that I felt I needed to.  Her every reaction to every drug, the times she received the doses, the different emotions experienced, missing my 8 month old at home.   I quickly fell behind and was angry that I was missing so much of what I thought I needed to get down, in the name of control.

Image

Book of Poetry by Dan Rothermel

 And then one day someone brought me this small book called, Sweet Dreams, Robyn written by Dan Rothermel.  It is a collection of poems he wrote about his daughter with cancer.  This book transformed my writing life.  Suddenly, I had the permission and allowed myself to write in poetry finding it easier to get down all that I wanted to without getting muddled in all of the pros it took.  In the words of my Dad, “less is more” in writing.

With the death of my father I had this same experience as I was meandering through the blog world I found a blog that just spoke to me.  She writes a fictional piece about the death of her mother and says,

“It came together when I was working on a blog post about Wallace Stevens one of my favorite poets. His “13 Ways of Looking at a Blackbird” was on my mind while I was reading Paul Harding’s Tinkers.”

Her mentor  Wallace Stevens gave her what she needed to capture what she wanted to write in fiction and I instantly knew that this too would be the perfect way for me to capture and process my father dying.  Snippets of strong images that I needed to get down on paper and so her blog became my mentor text.  It was more than perfect.

You can find her blog at  http://deborahbrasket.wordpress.com/

So here is my version, based on the ideas I stole from her that she stole from Wallace Stevens. 

13 Ways of Looking at Death Just Before, During and After

I

I called him on the phone, his voice weak and wavering as his hand fought to keep the phone still.   “Hey Dad, how are you feeling?”

“Bad.  This is Bad.  What I have is really bad.”  I cringe, as I know he knows it is bad.  Sepsis.  Blood infection on top of pneumonia not to mention his COPD, heart disease and diabetes…

He has never said it was bad before.  He always said,  “It is getting better.

It is bad.

 

II

His oxygen cord lies on the dirty floor as it takes her a moment to realize there are no lines crossing his face, lines of plastic jewelry tubes that have become as permanent as his glasses.  He is not getting any air.

And she wonders…just how long has he been without oxygen?

She calls the nurse and insists he gets a new one.  Nurse never responds to the absence of his air or how long he has been without it.

Idiots.

 

III 

She is alone with him, Red Sox images flashing in the dark room, sound blaring while she simultaneously plays Candy Crush.    He wakes, peers over and says, ”You are still here?  I really appreciate that.”

I smile. 

And we go on like that for hours.

The Sox won.

Won the AL East Title.  He is not aware.

She hoped it was a good sign.

She is always looking for signs.

 

IV

Today is a good day.  He is out of bed, sitting up in the hospital chair as she enters.  He starts talking, “You know I sat up all night trying to remember the kids names.”

She thinks it must be all of the grandkids that he is forgetting…he continues…

“I know I have 3 kids.  2 daughters and a son.”

“Yes that is right” she replies, as he looks up at her and says, “The first daughter is Lisa.” 

“Yes Dad, Lisa is your first daughter.”

“Then there is another one, you, what is your name?”

Her 10-year-old self emerges and screams inside, YOU named me Dad!! Don’t you remember?  I have the coolest name in the world because YOU made it up. 

That’s enough of this name game.

We gotta get him the hell out of this hospital.

Image

Me, My Dad and Lisa

 

V

My once virile father sits perched on the kitchen island pursing for air.  How did he get in the house so quickly?  My brother in law carried him in, like a baby in his arms, but he was amazed at just how heavy he really was, all  filled up with 9 days of hospital IV fluids so he had to stop to rest.

We still laugh at the absurdity of my Dad sitting with his feet swinging on the kitchen counter.  Who says you don’t go backwards?

He then carries him the next leg into the bed where he will remain until he dies.

 

VI

Each breath is a struggle and you can tell it actually hurts.  Never mind when he coughs.  He just wants to feel better, but he doesn’t really as he tries to negotiate in his head that he is now home and how he thought being home would make him feel better…but he doesn’t.  Now what?  You can see it coursing across his forehead like the GMA banner in Times Square.  Now what?  Now what?  Now what?

 

VII

Doctor came to the house.  Yes, in 2013 a Doctor actually came to meet the needs of his patient.   There is a God.  (See previous post on Systems)

Dad chose hospice.  Visions of nurses, social workers and support at our side danced her head as she wondered…does he really know what he is choosing?

She is sent up to the Local Colonial Pharmacy to get the “hospice kit”.  A box filled with drugs and lots of other things medical that you don’t want to know about never mind even think about using.

She is the chosen one to give her father his first dose of comfort packaged in a needless syringe to be administered orally.  Flashbacks of shoving chemo filled syringes disguised in chocolate pudding to her 3 and a half-year-old smack her in the face. 

Click…she re-enters that mode and just does what she has to do.  She has been here before and she just does it.  Nurse Ratched is back in the house. 

VIII

My brother arrives a few minutes after giving my Dad the morphine. 

The pill that he was begging for. 

The morphine that I was afraid of. 

The morphine that came without the nurses and the social workers and the volunteers to help us through this process.  

Where in the hell were those hospice people she had heard so many wonderful stories about? 

All they got was hospice in a box that had to be refrigerated.

 It was just My Mom and I with my Dad yelling at us, “Will you just give it to me for God’s sake, I don’t  care if it is the wrong dose.”

 He begged for relief as we became more and more agitated and unsteady in the moment, dropping syringes, reading and rereading the prescription and even calling the pharmacist. 

And finally I  just gave it to him as he gasped for air and I suddenly realized we too had been as negligent as the hospital.

His oxygen tank had run out.  No wonder he was desperate for something.  How many ways are there to torture a man?

And they left the room when her brother arrived. 

Image

Jamie and Dad

IX

Morphine overdose.  Her brother horrified that we left him alone with a his father who was fine and talking with him one minute and then was suddenly hallucinating and trying to get out of bed.  His strength mammoth as my mother got in bed behind him to restrain him.  He could not walk on those big boats of feet filled with fluid. 

I call the VNA.  I reach out for those hospice people who were supposed to be there and tell him we need help ASAP!!!!! 

He responds that giving morphine is an “art” and not that you gave him too much but that if he had been there he would have started with a lower dose.  After telling her this for the 4th time she wants to reach out and punch him through the phone…then why the HELL would you hand it over to an amateur?

He arrives at the house and starts talking about the “art” of dosing morphine again!!!  She sees red and runs from him to avoid physically clobbering him.

Next Time…I give him ¼ of the recommended dose. 

Thank you, Honorary Dr. Brother James. It says you can give it every 30 minutes.  One quarter of a dose lasted him 12 hours. 

Insanity.

 

X

He lays in bed and sleeps, or so it seems, soundly for days on end.

The question dancing through the house…”when will it happen?”

The family has their own form of hospice in a “Come to Jesus” kind of scene from a bad Lifetime Movie.  We all give him permission to go, hands on, tears flying.  Sister Lisa actually seems to be cheering him up to the pearly gates.  Everybody says their peace and then we all continue to sit with big red puffy eyes, exhausted and we wait.

He doesn’t go.

When will he go?

He doesn’t go.

From the background Cousin Anne tells us, “He isn’t going to go right now, it doesn’t happen like that.” And snaps us out of our delusions that we can will him to go in that moment.

XI

The sleepless nights wear on as brother and sister get up at different times to peek in to see my mother sleeping next to my yes, still breathing, father.

Exhaustion settles into the house and takes a seat on the couch alongside us.

Maybe he is not going anywhere.  Maybe he will live forever.

Meals are delivered.  They are all amazed at how they just show up and are so thankful because eating and food have not been on their radar.

Dad has not really eaten or had anything to drink for over 12 days.

Unless you count 4 little bird bites here and there.  I fed him his last scrambled egg from Lisa’s chickens a couple days ago.  No solid food since eating 5 bites of that egg.  No water.  Nothing.

How does the human body beat on?  Especially one we all thought was so fragile?

His Hands don’t even look like his anymore they are so filled up with fluid,  boxers hands.

Every moment stretches on as you wonder…when will his last breath be?  Who will be with him?  She wonders all of these things as she crawls into bed with him and rubs his back and quietly cries for her Daddy while the Red Sox blare on the radio from the bedside table next to us.  

“How can something so natural be so unnatural?”  son James wonders.

XII

She wakes at 8.  Walks downstairs past her sleeping brother and sees her mother making the bed around her father’s still body.   His breathing has changed.  It is short.  Very short.  She says, get the morphine.

I know I must give him him the rest of the syringe…the same dose I administered 5 days earlier…it was what he needed.  He was hardly breathing.

Mom is on his right.  She is on his left. 

He opens his eyes for the first time since the morphine began.  The biggest widest eyes you have ever seen and he looked over at my Mom and she said, “Look at those big beautiful brown eyes.  I love those eyes.  They have not been that open in years.  I wonder why none of you got those eyes?  I am the dominant one.”

“I always wished I had gotten those brown eyes I respond as his eyes then slowly trail to find me on the left.  He stares right at me for a moment and then it is as if he is looking to something beyond me.  He holds that gaze for what seems like forever before he moves his sights straight ahead and opens them even wider.  He was seeing the light.  He liked it.  He felt peaceful as he took one long deep breath and closed his eyes.

“Is that it?”  Mom and I looked at each other.  It seemed to be.  No pulse. 

And then out of nowhere one last little breath just to mess with us as we laughed. 

Dad died.

8:15 am on Sunday, September 29th, 2013.

It was beautiful.

Image

Dad and Mom taking flight on Chappy

 

XIII

She misses him.  They all miss him.  She is not sure what to do so she talks about him.  She remembers him.  She reads.  She writes about him.  She laughs at his Donald Duck impression stored away on her computer.  She shuffles through years of pictures and marvels at how great he looked for so long regardless of his health issues.  She thanks her Mom for keeping him so healthy for so long.  She misses him.  Every day.

He was a great man.

He had 9 lives. 

He lived every one of them fully.

He was her Dad.

 

 

I love this piece because for me it captures all that I want to remember and all that was there during this incredibly intense, scary, weird time.  I feel better after reading about others experiences and then writing my own.  

What would have happened had I been in a student in class and I was asked to write a recipe or a persuasive essay from one character in my assigned book to another when all I could think about was my Dad?  Do we consider the lives of our writers, where they are and what they have to say and what they are interested in reading about?

I would argue that right now we teach the writing and not the writers.  We teach the reading and not the readers.  We think about checking things off. Persuasive Essay, check, Informational Reading, check, Memoir, check, Close Reading, Check.

What would happen if we trusted and guided readers and writers to know, to figure out what it was they wanted to know more about, what they wanted to say and then focused on helping them discover the best way or ways to read about it and say it?  If we gave them the time to read others and think to themselves, “Hey, I could write something like that!”

Reading and Writing are my “go to’s” when I am trying to figure something out, process emotions, inform, wonder, preach, question, express, persuade, create, think, communicate, get lost and so many other things.  What if the goal of every reading and writing curriculum was to help our readers and writers see reading and writing as a “go to” and not just a series of assignments to be completed, but tools for life?

And while this all may seem incredibly personal for a blog on education, I believe I am finally finding my stride in that a real and true education is deeply personal. 

And I wonder…are we  afraid of this authenticity?  These truths? 

And even as I consider posting this, putting it out into the world, I question myself.  Do we want to hear or read these truths?  Why do I put it out there?  And while I know none of these answers I only know that I will…

 

Follow the link below to read my Dad’s obituary beautifully written by my sister, Lisa.

http://www.chadwickfuneralservice.com/fh/obituaries/obituary.cfm?o_id=2263261&fh_id=12966 

 

 

 

 

 

Honoring Space and Time

Posted on by
5

I walked out on the back deck this morning and to my horrors of horrors there were leaves strewn about. The first leaves fallen, physical evidence that slowly but surely the seasons are and will be changing.  And with that change I hear all of my teacher friends talk about going into their classrooms with excitement and anticipation at the prospect of a new year.  How will they set up their classrooms this year?  What kinds of “areas” can be created in this space where they will live with their students over this next year?

Image

Photo Credit: catchingreaders.com

This time of year seems to get earlier and earlier every year though.  It used to be that none of this was even contemplated until the official “end” of summer, Labor Day.  But no more.  College students are out shopping everywhere you go.  Sons and daughters with Mothers seeking out that perfect comforter and wall hangings to create their own sense of space, the home away from home.  My son, a senior, just out the door for his official soccer tryouts.  And yet…it is ONLY August 19th!  Much too early!

Space matters.  I find myself wanting to nest in my own home as I wake each morning with the urge to move furniture around and make things a new.  I stop myself though, reminding myself that it IS still summer and that my summer arrangements must stay as long as possible for it is, after all, our shortest season of all.

Image

Photo Credit: http://www.photoinpixel.com

And this summer I found myself not writing at all.  This blog was unintentionally left to have it’s own summer vacation and that gets me thinking about what I need as a writer and one of the major things I need is space.  And while that may seem incredibly obvious, with 2 kids in the house it is quite difficult to come by.  And while I realize I could create the space and time and get up really early with the birds and get to my keyboard, the truth is that when I am up early I am out tending my gardens.  You see there is so little weather here in New Hampshire that is conducive to early mornings outside.  My routine is to water my plants and survey each garden to see what has happened over night.  And things do happen.

Image

Photo Credit: reelswellblog.com

I tried roses this year though.  They are tough little buggers and as soon as we got them into the ground they up and died.  Not really, but they looked as though they were dead.  And so I left them.  I pruned them here and there, gave them food and water and just waited.  Not until yesterday did I start to see 2 tiny roses on one of the plants.  Why now?  I wondered?  Perhaps they just needed time to adjust to the new soil.  Perhaps the food finally kicked in.  Perhaps they got just the right amount of sunshine and water for a few days in a row.  Who knows!  Maybe all they needed was a bit of space.

Image

My roses FINALLY bloom on one bush!!

How often do we hold these spaces for our students?  Our teachers?  Spaces where they can be who they are, take the time that they need and figure out how to write or grow or bloom on their own?  We talked a lot about this “holding of space” in my summer course (last entry!) on Passion, Purpose and Play:  Creating Real Readers and Writers.  EVERY day during our 2 weeks together these students, made up of teachers and interns had the time and space they needed to do their work. We devoted the last chunk of our day to “workshop”.  Time where  students could choose what it was they wanted to work on and how.  They could choose to read or write anything they wanted.  It might be reading for the next day in class, a novel or magazine they were interested in, or the writing they were working on.  They could go to the library, go outside to read and write.  They could confer in their triads, in partners or with me.  They could write in notebooks, on their laptops or even on the floor if they so chose!  They could choose to use this time to express themselves artistically with watercolors and other art supplies provided.

Image

Christian and Lexe during Workshop Time, Summer 2013

I loved this time every day as it gave me time to sit with individuals and confer on their processes on what was working and what was not.  IF the work, the homework, is so important, then why don’t we ever provide the time and space for that work to begin to happen in class?  It seems so obvious and yet on my evaluations there was a resounding appreciation for that time given.  Respect.  That is what happened.  There was a great respect for the work when there was a place for that work to happen.  Many left each afternoon with clearly defined goals on where they wanted to take their reading and writing that night.

Image

Maria reading Poetry, Summer 2013

And while the cliché of students blooming has been used ad naseum, I am going to bring this back around to those damned roses.  The ones that refused to just blossom.  The ones, that given the time and space eventually did bloom!  Next to it though, is the other rose.  You know the one.  The one that no matter what you do, it just stays the same.  No buds, no roses, no sign of color.  The scrawny little plant next to the blooming phlox that are going to bloom and shine no matter what I do or don’t do.  But it is there….and nothing I did changed that plant for the better.  In fact it looks much worse than when we brought it home.  When first planted it it had gorgeous pale yellow and pink roses and now it simply stands alone, no flowers, no color.  Lifeless.  And yet it is not.  And so I will wait and be patient and hope and try some new things and hope and wait that perhaps one day…maybe even next summer that it will again yield a beautiful bloom or two, but you just never know.

Image

Sad little rosebush..no buds!

And that is the imprecision of teaching and learning in a nutshell.  We can do all we can and still there may be those roses that will never bloom, at least not while you are around.  And that is ok.  Maybe it is not their time.  Maybe what is happening on the inside is more important than the product.  It is not always what we “see” that matters in the long haul.

And so we begin a new year…and I do so love the feeling of new beginnings.   It is what makes me a true New Englander.  As much as I hate the seasons I need the seasons. So little leaves on the back deck, I welcome you, but not entirely as I sweep you off and honor the space of summer as long as I can!

The HOPE Line is Open and Ready for Business, Honoring One Person’s Experience at a Time

Posted on by
3

I always tell people I have the best job in the world.   I have autonomy.  I am respected to make sound decisions based on the needs of my students.  I have choice and a voice that I am encouraged to use.   I have time to create lessons, facilitate discussions, envision graduate courses and then execute them with amazing professionals.  I am trusted.  This gives me hope.

Image

I wish every teaching professional could say the same thing.  My work is centered in the idea that we learn by doing and so whatever I am teaching or doing I engage in myself first be that a reading assignment, a writing assignment or something that I will be teaching to students.

Ultimately it all comes down to purpose: the why and the how of the whole thing.  And yet I find myself fighting for sites in which to work.  Moving upstream against a current that has such great momentum that is would seem there is no hope.  Imagine that not many years ago our Learning Through Teaching graduate level course were in over 30 schools in the area from New Hampshire, Massachusetts  and up into Maine.  We had a great many talented  consultants and our outreach was far and wide.

Our model was “in vogue” as it empowered teachers and brought them together within their own schools for professional reading, writing and dialogue.  Slowly over the years, the demand has not lessened but the funding has dried up.  The professional development of our teachers is one of the last things on a long list of budget demands.

Image

But there is always hope.  In fact I saw it in my class just last week.  This group is a unique group of educators who meet monthly to discuss a common professional reading in my home.  They receive graduate credit for their work, but more than that they receive support in a way that they cannot find elsewhere.

One teacher actually commented that she found herself wanting to be careful in talking with other teachers at her school about our course because they did not have the same network of support.  So on the one hand she wants to rave about what is a critical part of her ongoing professional development, but on the other hand she feels she cannot.

Another teacher was literally brought to tears as she expressed how lonely and isolated she was feeling in her own classroom and frustrated with the lack of thinking and keeping students in mind.

Image

A MUST read for all.

But, these teachers, after reading Readicide by Kelly Gallagher, immediately shifted their focus on reading to include the love of reading and celebrating that with students.   And you might think, really?  Isn’t that just a given?  And the answer is not anymore!!  This shift brought them back to themselves and who they know they are as educators.  And their students responded in kind coming into school proclaiming,

“I finished my book last night and it was amazing!!  What should I read next?”  And we, together as a group, celebrated these moments.

And in that one line there is hope!  Can you see it?  Just a glimmer?  Honoring One Person’s Experience. Let’s follow that light.  We are strong.  We know what is best for our students and if we can ignite a sense of readership, writership and thinkership among them then we are slowly creating a new genre of students in the name of those who care, those who want to think, those who want to read, those who want to write and will…

Image

And just like those Bostonians who ran towards the disaster and renewed our faith in human kind, let’s do the same for education kind.  So in this spirit please share your “one liners” of HOPE from your students, administrators, parents whatever.  What is being said to keep the hope alive?   The HOPE Line is open and ready for business, Honoring One Person’s Experience at a time.  What is yours?

Photo Credits: www.hopeinspiredministries.org,mylifelonglearningcorner.blogspot.com,info.live58.org –

Books and Words: Tools for Life

Posted on by
8

I woke up this morning to the news that our dear friend, Jimmy, 23 years old, died last night as a result of Ewing’s Sarcoma, a nasty cancer that takes 50% of those who get it.  Why did Jimmy have to be on the wrong side of the 50%?  What is the sense in a life lost at 23?  How does one survive the loss of a son?  A brother?

ImageI ask these questions in my head to try to make sense of it all…where there is no sense to be made.  I am all questions and no answers.  My heart aches for his family as I cannot even imagine what they are going through realizing the worst fear of any parent.  I wonder if there is any coming back from such pain and loss and sadness.

And the first thing I do by reflex is search for books, articles, blogs, and information out there that might provide some sense of understanding or solace.  Would it help to read about others who have experienced what they are going through?  Are there articles or poetry that I can send along to help?  Is there anything I can read to help me wrap my head around something that is so unbelievable?

And then I write.  I write to friends, my sister, my family.  I text, I e-mail and then I open up my word processor and begin  to process.  Everything I think about seems so trite…it has been said before. And yet I continue to read and write to attempt to make sense out of the senseless.

And then I get a quick FB message from another mutual friend saying that Jimmy’s story of strength and positivity has to be written.  It is so true. It does need to be written. He was amazing.   And before I go and see my friend Karen, Jimmy’s Mom,  I run into the bookstore desperate to find something to hand to her, something with words that might help.  Words on a page that one can respond to without having to consider any other person’s reactions.  A place to safely feel and respond as only you need to respond.

My daughter Emma got close to Jimmy in this past year.  He reached out to her and at first she just didn’t know what she could offer Jimmy until she read a book by John Green called, The Fault in Our Stars.  It is a book about kids with cancer in a support group who work together to figure out the meaning of life and death through love and friendship.

After reading this book, Emma told me  that never before had she understood why other people with cancer would reach out to her.  It always made her feel uncomfortable and as if she had nothing to offer.  Emma had leukemia when she was three.  Four and half years later, 6 months from being declared cured, she relapsed.  Cancer was part of her life for much of her childhood.  And not until she read that book did she even begin to understand how she might help others.

“He gets me”, she exclaimed of author John Green.   “He understands the language of cancer and what it feels like to be different”.  This book changed her life and encouraged her to reach back to Jimmy, realizing that she had understanding to offer and just how powerful that is.  They became fast friends, having “crazy cancer” in common and wrote to each other frequently on Facebook.  She awaited his Care Page updates with great anticipation and tried to visit him whenever she was home from school. He gave her the gift of understanding right back.  They connected and for her that connection, although too brief, meant the world to her.

Reading and writing are essential tools to function in this life.

Books are places to go to find others who are feeling what you are feeling; a place to engage in empathy and sympathy, grief, anger, happiness, joy, success, failure, triumphs, beauty, sorrow, loss, laughter, inspiration, motivation, creativity, and to attempt to make sense of what it means to be a human being and what it means to live this life in a way that matters, that has meaning; an attempt to find words where there are none.  A place where we belong in a world that often seems so disconnected.  A place to grow.

Image

Because ultimately I believe we all want to be a part of something bigger in this life, be it an idea, a community, a philosophy, a friendship and books and words help us into those larger spaces and beyond ourselves.

Be Peaceful Jimmy.

You are missed and loved by so many.

Brick by Brick

Posted on by
4

I must confess.  I have been trying to write a book on education for years.  I have actually even put together what “looks” like a book, but if I am completely honest it sucks.  I love to write.  I love to write to discover what I am thinking or wondering about.  I love to play with words.  I love to write but I do not like the voice I put on when I am in book writing mode.  Why?

It dawned on me this morning that I hate what I have written in these books because as soon as I start to write something for the book I put on my slick persuasion blazer and bowler hat and begin the song and dance to show you my “expertise” in teaching and the classroom.  I become the evangelical used car salesperson of education.  I  try to cover everything that I know in order to create the be all and end all, the educational Bible of the century…and ultimately it is a massive failure.  In it I lose my truth, my voice, the essence of who I am which is not an expert of anything, but someone who thinks and wonders and reflects…alongside those I work with.

Image

So, how can I ask you to come along with me as I shed the slick suit with all the answers and indulge me in some way?  I have so many questions that I would like to explore and yet all of them seem are rooted in the theme of how to make our teaching and our classrooms authentic places where learning can and does happen.  How can we engage students instead of disengage them?   How can we change an entire system?  We can’t.  But perhaps what we can do is shift our thinking about our students, our classrooms, and the systems and begin to view them through a narrative lens.  What are the stories in your classroom?  What are the stories of those students you work with?  What are the stories in your literary life?

Research tells us that 70% of what we learn and remember is through a narrative form and yet 98% of the information we provide to our students is in the form of straight fact.

Elizabeth is a beautiful 7th grade soul struggling with a major disconnect between her Social Studies textbook and her sense of wanting to know and understand.  When I first worked with Elizabeth she took me up to her room and showed me her bookcase and all of the different books she liked to read.  She talked openly and freely and with great fluidity about who she was as a reader, what she liked, what she didn’t like and she laughed as we talked about “fake reading” and how she does it in school and so do all of her friends.  She was animated and those beautiful brown eyes danced with enthusiasm and purpose.

Fast forward to the dining room table 10 minutes later where Elizabeth and I will attempt to tackle her Social Studies homework for the night.  Her shoulders slump as she leans over and pulls out the Mount Everest of Textbooks.  It must weigh at least 5 pounds and it is only one of the many texts that Elizabeth is being asked to shoulder.  She lets it thunk down on the table and the reverberations from that book shudder across the table.  This is a heavy book, filled with endless information and Elizabeth’s long sigh confirms that the drudgery is about to begin.  First I ask her to tell me about the book.  She stops and thinks.  I wait.  I ask her what it feels like to read this book.  She thinks and eventually responds, “It is like reading a brick wall.  I try and I try but it is like I can never get through it.”  I am stunned and rendered speechless at Elizabeth’s ability to create such a powerful image for what this experience is like for her.  She is a deep thinker.  She likes to make sense of her world through simile and metaphor and I am in awe of her brilliance and so I tell her so.  She does not feel this way about herself, however.

Image

And we then begrudgingly open the monster of a book and begin.  She is reading about Russia.  Ahhh…yes Russia I begin to remember as both of my kids went through 7th grade with this same teacher and her passion for all things Russian in just one year.  The page she opens to is busy with color and information galore.  It is a smattering of information intended to inform, but to me it looks as though someone vomited everything they may or might want to cover in a chapter onto the page.

We begin with the title and I talk to Elizabeth about making these titles into questions.  Her eyes brighten.  She likes that there is something she can actually “do” to begin to make sense of the text in front of her.  We peruse the page and I move her to the bright green box at the left labeled major concepts and key vocabulary in an effort to activate schema and perhaps do some front-loading to guide her through the reading.

We get through one concept and as I try to conjure up as much information as I can about Russia I quickly realize I am as schema depleted as she is. We press on to vocabulary keeping the key ideas in mind as a purpose for our reading…should we actually get to the reading part.  There are 5 words and in each of those words lives worlds of information.  Elizabeth wants to know more.  What is a Czar?  How is that different than a president?  She is inquisitive, engaged and interested.  A half an our of our time has passed and we have yet to actually even “read” anything!  I move us along…feeling the time crushing in on us.

Image

We start with our questions to read with a purpose and not three words into her reading there is a vocabulary word that she is stumbling over.  She looks up at me and I continue on to the end of the paragraph. I ask her if she understands what she is reading. She shakes her head no.  We talk about stopping and thinking about her understanding and stopping at that point where nothing makes sense anymore.  She goes back and stops at the third word.  It is the same word that she looked up at me on.

We talked about how readers think about their own thinking and how knowing when to stop was as important as knowing when to read on.  I pointed out to her that she “knew” when she didn’t know because she looked up at me.  I want Elizabeth to think about her reading and her understanding as she moves through the text and to stop when she knows she has lost meaning.  She stops at a heavy-hitting vocabulary word, not identified in the neat green column that the publishers deemed as vocabulary.  I help her break down the word and ask her to think of what it reminds her of.  Together we make sense of the word and then she reads on.

And so we work and trudge on as far as we can together in this text knowing that IF Elizabeth is going to actually “get” anything out of this text then we must continue at this snail’s pace to ensure understanding.  It is a process that I am engaged in alongside her as I too question and attempt to make sense of the listing of facts and how they do or do not connect.

Image

There is no narrative in this text.  Nothing for us to grab onto in this endless sea of facts that now seems to weigh heavily on both of us.  And so I attempt to shorten her assignment, knowing she will not get to the questions she has to answer by the end of our time together, but making the choice to allow Elizabeth some true understanding, taking time “out” of the text to Google and get a sense of story that is so lacking in the text.

Who were this Czar and his crazy wife?  Why do they just mention these people in a list of others without letting us know why she was crazy?  And so we Google again and go deeper.

It is hard work.  And I have to question why so much is assigned in one night, but my questioning does not change the fact that those questions are due tomorrow.  She stops and flips through the pages ahead to see how much more she has to read for this one night’s assignment and a heavy groaning sigh escapes her mouth as she rolls her eyes to see we still have 6 more pages to go through.  I look at her and say, “Brick by Brick is all we can do here so let’s just keep keeping on.”  She rolls her eyes again as fatigue begins to move in and we press on.

Image

So how do we challenge this idea of more is better?  Do we want our students going nearly an inch deep and miles wide or do we want to advocate for depth over breadth?  Are we giving our students enough time and the right kind of books to gain a true understanding of whatever it is we are teaching?  Or are we more interested in coverage and checking things off a list?  Do we realize that each time a student comes to a text that is their FIRST reading and that the knowledge we have comes from numerous readings, rendering it much easier to understand?  Are we aware of what it is like for our students?  Are we thinking about that and what that assignment “looks” like for our kids at home?

Less is more.

And in my attempt to write “the” book I realize this too was my problem as I tried to cover everything and rarely went deeply with anything.  And so now I write this blog where I find myself going more deeply with my thinking.  I threw the book out the window because I realized what I was trying to do in all of those attempts was to cover EVERYthing and to do it from an all-knowing omniscient voice.

I do not know everything.  In fact there is so much more that I do not know than I do know.  Living in this information age, information is cheap, but connecting it and making sense of it is priceless.  And so in the name of less is more I write  to wonder, question and begin to figure out my thinking.. brick by brick.  And don’t we want the same for our kids?

Image