I've just finished looking over my lesson plan and I'm giving a quiz today. I hate quizzes. I barely even grade them. "Why are you giving a quiz then?" Well, that's an excellent question, Mr. Blogosphere! I'll tell you why. I have a really quiet class right now. I've given them group work discussions, classroom-wide discussions, etc, and they still don't seem to be willing to talk about the reading assignments I've been giving. This leads me to think that one of two things are true.
1.) This is a rare collection of quiet students. It's like finding a Red Wolf in the wild. It's an unusual occurrence. Normally you simply make the students feel comfortable, that their ideas matter and the corks fly out of their mouths and they begin talking.
2.) They aren't doing the reading.
I am fine if number 1 is true, but I have to eliminate the possibility of 2 first. By giving a quiz I will see if the students are doing the reading. If not, then I issue more reading quizzes until I get a majority of the class on board. This is the easiest thing to test for and it is the easiest thing to fix. If they aren't doing the reading, attach points to it. Simple as that.
The other option, the Red Wolf scenario, is a tougher nut to crack. It may go so far as to ask me to fundamentally change the way I run my class. It's fine if there are many students who learn quietly and independently. I simply need to find exercises that match my material that will enable them to learn in the way they are most successful. This requires research, conversations with Master Teachers, etc. I'm still new at this and I'm willing to entertain other suggestions, Mr. Blogosphere, so pony up and let's get these kids working. They need to master this material.
***It was immediately apparent when I gave the quiz that it was a lack of reading that was leading to the lack of classroom conversation. Quiz scores have verified those results. No Red Wolf here.***
Thursday, September 30, 2010
Wednesday, September 29, 2010
The Ethical Butcher
One of the advantages of teaching at the college level is there are often presentations on campus that are open to the public and provide unique learning opportunities for my classes. Today was one of those days.
Berlin Reed is the butcher, chef and writer behind the The Ethical Butcher. His practice is driven by personal relationships with small local farmers, a deep love of food, respect for the animals we eat and the environment on which we depend. He is based in Portland, OR and also writes personal essays for publication.
So, my Freshman class went to a presentation by Berlin today. It was a refreshing change of pace from the normal animal rights, vegetarianism vs. veganism vs. omnivorism lecture we are used to hearing in sustainability lectures. Berlin was a vegetarian for 12 years before he came back to responsible omnivorism. He works to raise awareness in people surrounding this issue in a way that feels very inclusive to other ways of living. He can understand the vegetarian and vegan point of view, he can understand the meat eaters point of view as well, but what sets him apart is that he doesn't let anyone off the hook.
Today's presentation gave me a unique insight into the sustainability movement that I believe transcends animal rights, food choices, etc and just boils down to just plain old human decency.
For more information on Berlin, or to check out his blog, go to http://ethicalbutcher.blogspot.com/
Berlin Reed is the butcher, chef and writer behind the The Ethical Butcher. His practice is driven by personal relationships with small local farmers, a deep love of food, respect for the animals we eat and the environment on which we depend. He is based in Portland, OR and also writes personal essays for publication.
So, my Freshman class went to a presentation by Berlin today. It was a refreshing change of pace from the normal animal rights, vegetarianism vs. veganism vs. omnivorism lecture we are used to hearing in sustainability lectures. Berlin was a vegetarian for 12 years before he came back to responsible omnivorism. He works to raise awareness in people surrounding this issue in a way that feels very inclusive to other ways of living. He can understand the vegetarian and vegan point of view, he can understand the meat eaters point of view as well, but what sets him apart is that he doesn't let anyone off the hook.
Today's presentation gave me a unique insight into the sustainability movement that I believe transcends animal rights, food choices, etc and just boils down to just plain old human decency.
For more information on Berlin, or to check out his blog, go to http://ethicalbutcher.blogspot.com/
Tuesday, September 28, 2010
The Fixed Narrative
I was sitting in front of my computer putting the final touches on my lesson plan for the day when the phone rang. I'd placed a call to the Oregon City Police department in the hopes of pinning down some answers. When I looked down at my cell and the screen read "withheld", I knew who it was.
In the PCC Hillsboro Center, all faculty share office space. In the interest of being courteous to the literacy teacher sharing the space with me, I went outside. It was Officer X, the same officer who took my testimony on Saturday. He'd called me back in response to my message. He knew the man's story.
The young man was a chronic transient with alcohol problems. He'd recently gone clean and had something like three weeks of sobriety under his belt. He had shown up at his mother's house and told her that he didn't want to live anymore. This was earlier in the day on Saturday.
The narrative, as we are able to understand it, is that the man then walked to the edge of the cliff in Oregon City and threw himself off. The officer went into further detail, but in the interest of decorum I would rather not go into them here. Also, I kind of wish I didn't know them.
It wasn't a violent crime and it wasn't a train, which were the group's two guesses, but suddenly it has become something sadder, more morose, and I'm left wondering about what it means, what his life means, and how I can possibly bring meaning to this situation. It's a big question mark at this point and I'll always wonder about him. I didn't get his name, really almost avoided it, but I do feel tied to his life somehow, or is it that he's tied to mine.
His family's been notified. I'm sure there will be a service to honor him for the man he was. It comforts me to know there is someone there to pay respects, to pray for him, to honor him, and to remember him. In the end that's what we have of our loved ones, right? The memories. The remembrances.
I'm glad there is someone there to remember him.
In the PCC Hillsboro Center, all faculty share office space. In the interest of being courteous to the literacy teacher sharing the space with me, I went outside. It was Officer X, the same officer who took my testimony on Saturday. He'd called me back in response to my message. He knew the man's story.
The young man was a chronic transient with alcohol problems. He'd recently gone clean and had something like three weeks of sobriety under his belt. He had shown up at his mother's house and told her that he didn't want to live anymore. This was earlier in the day on Saturday.
The narrative, as we are able to understand it, is that the man then walked to the edge of the cliff in Oregon City and threw himself off. The officer went into further detail, but in the interest of decorum I would rather not go into them here. Also, I kind of wish I didn't know them.
It wasn't a violent crime and it wasn't a train, which were the group's two guesses, but suddenly it has become something sadder, more morose, and I'm left wondering about what it means, what his life means, and how I can possibly bring meaning to this situation. It's a big question mark at this point and I'll always wonder about him. I didn't get his name, really almost avoided it, but I do feel tied to his life somehow, or is it that he's tied to mine.
His family's been notified. I'm sure there will be a service to honor him for the man he was. It comforts me to know there is someone there to pay respects, to pray for him, to honor him, and to remember him. In the end that's what we have of our loved ones, right? The memories. The remembrances.
I'm glad there is someone there to remember him.
Monday, September 27, 2010
The Madness of a Narrative's Infinite Possibility
He's haunting me a little. The dead man. I think about him a lot. I don't think I mentioned this in my last post about him but he appeared to be around my age, at least within ten years. He was a young man. I don't know his name. I don't know what happened to him. I don't know if his family has been notified, if there is a service, if anyone will attend. I don't know anything and so I run eventualities through my head.
He was hit by a train. An accident. His family is searching for him.
He was drunk and fell off the cliff. He had a terrible relationship with his family. No one has even noticed he's missing.
He was accosted by thugs and beaten to death for the few dollars in his pocket. That's where his shoes disappeared to. They took them, the thieves. He's married. He left the house after a fight to get drunk. His wife thinks he left her.
The possibilities here are infinite and I'm running through all of them, through all combinations. I wish someone would simply report on the thing so I could lay this thought process to rest. I wish the same for the man. That he can be laid to rest.
He was hit by a train. An accident. His family is searching for him.
He was drunk and fell off the cliff. He had a terrible relationship with his family. No one has even noticed he's missing.
He was accosted by thugs and beaten to death for the few dollars in his pocket. That's where his shoes disappeared to. They took them, the thieves. He's married. He left the house after a fight to get drunk. His wife thinks he left her.
The possibilities here are infinite and I'm running through all of them, through all combinations. I wish someone would simply report on the thing so I could lay this thought process to rest. I wish the same for the man. That he can be laid to rest.
The Strength of a Woman
My wife is amazing.
I could probably end the post right there. Not many people who know her would argue, but I'll lay out my reasons here because its good to say nice things to our loved ones. Let me tell you the story of this weekend and I'll let you be the judge.
Friday I helped my father move and so wasn't home until late. My wife, after a long day's work, went shopping for a dinner party on Saturday, picked up our daughter, and got her home and down for the night. She then went about the first wave of preparations for house guests.
When I woke on Saturday, she was set and ready to go in the yard. She dug up a tree, planted four or five new ones, weeded, cleaned, cooked, took care of our daughter, and was a gracious and willing companion as we set about having our "interesting" sightseeing tour (see earlier post for additional details). She was warm and cordial to my brother, his fiance, and our friends. She made sure everyone had their every need attended to and she made it all seem easy.
On Sunday she woke up and entertained again. She was a loving (although tired) wife and partner as we set about having a family dinner for my father's birthday. Every moment of her time was filled with obligations and chores, but she navigated the entire weekend with a grace and class that I've always admired about her. She transitions from having her arms up to their elbows in dirt to a wine bar where she's finding deals on Oregon Pinots.
I'm always amazed at how well she navigates all her roles. This blog is a meditation on roles. Most of the time it is my roles that I'm looking at but today my wife deserves some love, credit, and kudos. She's a beautiful woman, a fantastic mother, a loving friend, a caring daughter, and a role model for both me and my daughter. I love you, baby. Thanks for everything.
I could probably end the post right there. Not many people who know her would argue, but I'll lay out my reasons here because its good to say nice things to our loved ones. Let me tell you the story of this weekend and I'll let you be the judge.
Friday I helped my father move and so wasn't home until late. My wife, after a long day's work, went shopping for a dinner party on Saturday, picked up our daughter, and got her home and down for the night. She then went about the first wave of preparations for house guests.
When I woke on Saturday, she was set and ready to go in the yard. She dug up a tree, planted four or five new ones, weeded, cleaned, cooked, took care of our daughter, and was a gracious and willing companion as we set about having our "interesting" sightseeing tour (see earlier post for additional details). She was warm and cordial to my brother, his fiance, and our friends. She made sure everyone had their every need attended to and she made it all seem easy.
On Sunday she woke up and entertained again. She was a loving (although tired) wife and partner as we set about having a family dinner for my father's birthday. Every moment of her time was filled with obligations and chores, but she navigated the entire weekend with a grace and class that I've always admired about her. She transitions from having her arms up to their elbows in dirt to a wine bar where she's finding deals on Oregon Pinots.
I'm always amazed at how well she navigates all her roles. This blog is a meditation on roles. Most of the time it is my roles that I'm looking at but today my wife deserves some love, credit, and kudos. She's a beautiful woman, a fantastic mother, a loving friend, a caring daughter, and a role model for both me and my daughter. I love you, baby. Thanks for everything.
Sunday, September 26, 2010
Where Our Choices Lead
It's been a long, bizarre weekend and I'm stuck in my head a bit. Saturday began with a day filled with yard and house work. Tracy, Betty and I got a lot done and were feeling good about the day. New trees in the backyard, house cleaned, yard mowed, dinner ready for overnight guests. Life is good. It seemed like it was destined to be a regular Saturday.
The plan was for my brother Kerry, Joe, Cat and Amy to come over and we'd play "tourist" in Oregon City. Joe is a recently returned native and we thought it would be funny to have some cocktails, engage in some tourist activities, and have a dinner party. It was a silly excuse to get together more than anything else.
Well, here's where the series of choices comes into play. Tracy and I debated keeping Shea at the house and taking her on the tour with us. In the end, we decided we needed a date night and took her to grandma's house. When Kerry and the others arrived, we drove down to the Highland Stillhouse bar, parked and prepared to wait for the open air trolley that would take us around town. We waited for more than fifteen minutes but the trolley never came. Tammy, the owner of the Stillhouse, explained to us that she hadn't seen the trolley in a while and that it might have stopped service for the summer.
Hmm, what to do, what to do. Well, there's a walking path between the elevator and the Stillhouse, so we decided we would hoof it down to the elevator
or and at least get to do that portion of our trip. There's also a lower pedestrian walkway that takes you down to the bottom of the cliff first and then around to the elevator. We had a choice. We chose the lower route.
When we got to the bottom of the hill, just past the tunnel, we had to enter a small covered walkway to come out on to the street. The women were in front of us guys and they stopped short of the tunnel.
"There's someone in the tunnel," Cat said.
"Okay," I said. Joe and I stepped forward to walk into the tunnel in front of the girls. There was a man lying on the ground in the tunnel with an arm bent over his face. He was shirtless and shoeless. He looked like a transient who was taking a nap. As Joe and I skimmed past the "sleeping" man and moved on down to the end of the tunnel, it dawned on me that I didn't see him breathing. I had noticed a gigantic raspberry on his back like he'd fallen and scraped himself, which reinforced the "drunken transient" snap judgment.
When our entire party was at the foot of the tunnel and standing in the sun, Cat said, "That guy's dead."
"Did you see the trail of blood coming from his head?" Joe asked.
"He was bleeding out his ears," Tracy said.
I hadn't noticed any of this. "Someone needs to call 911."
I grabbed my phone out of my pocket and dialed the emergency number. The operator drilled me with questions. She asked me how I "knew" the man was dead. I told her we couldn't see her breathing. She asked me if I had a problem giving CPR. I told her he was dead. She asked if I could tell her how I knew. I told her the flies were a giveaway. She pushed and pushed me with questions until I finally touched the man with the toe of my shoe.
Tracy was at the base of the tunnel yelling for me to get out of there. She didn't want me to touch him, she worried that if he was alive he would jump up and grab me, or get blood on me. At that moment I heard the sirens in the distance and left the tunnel. The paramedics arrived in that moment and took over. Kerry, Joe, and I waited around for the cops to arrive so we could give our statements, but we sent the girls a couple of blocks over to wait it out at the wine bar.
As we discussed the events later that night, we felt like we were meant to find the man. There were too many decisions that could have gone another way. There was too much variability to the situation. An oddly fated situation. Our evening carried on as lives do, even in the face of death, but the conversation throughout the evening returned and returned to these moments, those choices, and how the man appeared to be our age, maybe a bit older.
As morbid and disturbing as the situation was, it feels good to be reminded of my own mortality.
The plan was for my brother Kerry, Joe, Cat and Amy to come over and we'd play "tourist" in Oregon City. Joe is a recently returned native and we thought it would be funny to have some cocktails, engage in some tourist activities, and have a dinner party. It was a silly excuse to get together more than anything else.
Well, here's where the series of choices comes into play. Tracy and I debated keeping Shea at the house and taking her on the tour with us. In the end, we decided we needed a date night and took her to grandma's house. When Kerry and the others arrived, we drove down to the Highland Stillhouse bar, parked and prepared to wait for the open air trolley that would take us around town. We waited for more than fifteen minutes but the trolley never came. Tammy, the owner of the Stillhouse, explained to us that she hadn't seen the trolley in a while and that it might have stopped service for the summer.
Hmm, what to do, what to do. Well, there's a walking path between the elevator and the Stillhouse, so we decided we would hoof it down to the elevator
or and at least get to do that portion of our trip. There's also a lower pedestrian walkway that takes you down to the bottom of the cliff first and then around to the elevator. We had a choice. We chose the lower route.
When we got to the bottom of the hill, just past the tunnel, we had to enter a small covered walkway to come out on to the street. The women were in front of us guys and they stopped short of the tunnel.
"There's someone in the tunnel," Cat said.
"Okay," I said. Joe and I stepped forward to walk into the tunnel in front of the girls. There was a man lying on the ground in the tunnel with an arm bent over his face. He was shirtless and shoeless. He looked like a transient who was taking a nap. As Joe and I skimmed past the "sleeping" man and moved on down to the end of the tunnel, it dawned on me that I didn't see him breathing. I had noticed a gigantic raspberry on his back like he'd fallen and scraped himself, which reinforced the "drunken transient" snap judgment.
When our entire party was at the foot of the tunnel and standing in the sun, Cat said, "That guy's dead."
"Did you see the trail of blood coming from his head?" Joe asked.
"He was bleeding out his ears," Tracy said.
I hadn't noticed any of this. "Someone needs to call 911."
I grabbed my phone out of my pocket and dialed the emergency number. The operator drilled me with questions. She asked me how I "knew" the man was dead. I told her we couldn't see her breathing. She asked me if I had a problem giving CPR. I told her he was dead. She asked if I could tell her how I knew. I told her the flies were a giveaway. She pushed and pushed me with questions until I finally touched the man with the toe of my shoe.
Tracy was at the base of the tunnel yelling for me to get out of there. She didn't want me to touch him, she worried that if he was alive he would jump up and grab me, or get blood on me. At that moment I heard the sirens in the distance and left the tunnel. The paramedics arrived in that moment and took over. Kerry, Joe, and I waited around for the cops to arrive so we could give our statements, but we sent the girls a couple of blocks over to wait it out at the wine bar.
As we discussed the events later that night, we felt like we were meant to find the man. There were too many decisions that could have gone another way. There was too much variability to the situation. An oddly fated situation. Our evening carried on as lives do, even in the face of death, but the conversation throughout the evening returned and returned to these moments, those choices, and how the man appeared to be our age, maybe a bit older.
As morbid and disturbing as the situation was, it feels good to be reminded of my own mortality.
Saturday, September 25, 2010
Exhaustion.
I woke up at 6:30 this morning with Shea. I left for work at 8 am. I graded papers from 9-10:30. I taught from 10:30 to 1. I immediately drove to Canby so my brother Kevin and I could drive to Eugene to load up my father's moving truck. On the way down to Eugene, I graded more papers. I moved my father and drove one of the rigs to his new house in Oregon City. I unloaded the rigs, began scanning the papers I graded on the car trip. Came home. Worked some more on grading. It's now a quarter to 1. I'm done. I'm waiting for the stupid scanned pages to upload as an attachment and then I can finally get some sleep. Good night, Today, it's been nice knowing you. I'll be hanging out with your identical twin when I wake up.
Thursday, September 23, 2010
The Perks
The dirty vodka martinis at Morton's arrive and Tracy and I toast each other. We are having a drink and an appetizer at the famous steakhouse while we wait to go across the street to Keller Auditorium. My First Year Seminar class is attending the opera. It's a requirement of the class. Every incoming freshman must attend the opera and one play over the course of the term. It unifies the freshman class, gives them all a common experience, and the university was nice enough to get a ticket for Tracy so she could accompany me. We're using the occasion as a mini-date night opportunity.
The opera performance is actually a combination of two operettas: Pagliacci and Carmina Burana. Pagliacci was a joy. It was a wonderful play within a play. I was worried a bit because ever since I read Stephen King's "It" I've been nervous about clowns. There was no reason to worry though. While the opera begins a little slow the second half speeds by and is full of bawdy humor and tragedy. There were a couple of times when the freshmen girls behind me gasped or uttered, "Oh my god, what are they doing?!"
Tracy and I laughed at their prudishness and held hands throughout the show. I miss that to be honest with you. I don't hold Tracy's hand often enough. It was nice to sit there in the dark of the theater, having a new experience, and sharing it with her through our intertwined fingers. We laughed quite a bit throughout Pagliacci.
Carmina Burana was not my favorite. It was an operetta made up of secular poetry from like the 16th century and was all about springtime and sex. Don't get me wrong, I normally love the sex talk, but how many times can you hear the flower opening as metaphor for sexuality line before it becomes a bit tiresome? Well, I didn't count but it became tiresome. Above the stage is a screen that translates the lyrics into English so people like me can understand the content of the show. I swear to you that I looked up at one point and the monitor read, "My virginity teases me." I laughed out loud. Probably not the best example for the instructor to make in front of his students, but, hey, it was funny.
Body Vox, a local dance company, danced throughout the whole production and this was the best part of Carmina Burana. Well, that was until one of my students blurted out, "You can see that guy's ass sweat." Well, she was right. You could totally see that guys ass sweat and, now, the ONLY thing I could see was that guy's ass sweat. Luckily there were only ten more minutes left in the production.
So, not bad for an additional educational duty I'd say. Tracy and I got to see a show, talk over cocktails and appetizers, hold hands, and relax for an evening. Now, if I could only get the image of that guy's sweaty ass pants out of my mind it would be a perfect evening.
The opera performance is actually a combination of two operettas: Pagliacci and Carmina Burana. Pagliacci was a joy. It was a wonderful play within a play. I was worried a bit because ever since I read Stephen King's "It" I've been nervous about clowns. There was no reason to worry though. While the opera begins a little slow the second half speeds by and is full of bawdy humor and tragedy. There were a couple of times when the freshmen girls behind me gasped or uttered, "Oh my god, what are they doing?!"
Tracy and I laughed at their prudishness and held hands throughout the show. I miss that to be honest with you. I don't hold Tracy's hand often enough. It was nice to sit there in the dark of the theater, having a new experience, and sharing it with her through our intertwined fingers. We laughed quite a bit throughout Pagliacci.
Carmina Burana was not my favorite. It was an operetta made up of secular poetry from like the 16th century and was all about springtime and sex. Don't get me wrong, I normally love the sex talk, but how many times can you hear the flower opening as metaphor for sexuality line before it becomes a bit tiresome? Well, I didn't count but it became tiresome. Above the stage is a screen that translates the lyrics into English so people like me can understand the content of the show. I swear to you that I looked up at one point and the monitor read, "My virginity teases me." I laughed out loud. Probably not the best example for the instructor to make in front of his students, but, hey, it was funny.
Body Vox, a local dance company, danced throughout the whole production and this was the best part of Carmina Burana. Well, that was until one of my students blurted out, "You can see that guy's ass sweat." Well, she was right. You could totally see that guys ass sweat and, now, the ONLY thing I could see was that guy's ass sweat. Luckily there were only ten more minutes left in the production.
So, not bad for an additional educational duty I'd say. Tracy and I got to see a show, talk over cocktails and appetizers, hold hands, and relax for an evening. Now, if I could only get the image of that guy's sweaty ass pants out of my mind it would be a perfect evening.
Tuesday, September 21, 2010
Calendars
I've never been the most organized of people. Some in my family might even say I am flighty. Well, for the first time in my life I'm working personal calendars. I have my schedule set up in Google Calendars to email me reminders of when I am supposed to be where. I have commute times in there, workout sessions, grading periods, prep times, and scheduled family times and dates. It's a necessary evil.
I'm heading into one of the busiest times I've ever had. Four different classes with four different preps. Drafts of essays, final drafts, blog posts and reading commentaries are all going to begin streaming across my desk. Preps, re-reading texts, and in-class exercises are all going to start piling up.
In an effort to keep up I've scheduled my life away. I've scheduled play time, writing time, drive time, workout time, and family time. It's a new sensation for me and I'm already bristling under the weight of it. It started yesterday.
I'll do my best to keep up with the calendar, with the schedule, but I make no guarantees. Tick, tock...oh yeah, I forgot to schedule sleep...tick, tock...
I'm heading into one of the busiest times I've ever had. Four different classes with four different preps. Drafts of essays, final drafts, blog posts and reading commentaries are all going to begin streaming across my desk. Preps, re-reading texts, and in-class exercises are all going to start piling up.
In an effort to keep up I've scheduled my life away. I've scheduled play time, writing time, drive time, workout time, and family time. It's a new sensation for me and I'm already bristling under the weight of it. It started yesterday.
I'll do my best to keep up with the calendar, with the schedule, but I make no guarantees. Tick, tock...oh yeah, I forgot to schedule sleep...tick, tock...
Monday, September 20, 2010
Scarlet
The trees at the south end of the Vandervelden courtyard have begun the shift from green to scarlet. My class took a walk the other day and I was immediately captivated by their colorings. I've been asking my colleagues around campus if they've taken note of them. So far no one has really noticed. I love the fall. The slow slide into the rainy weather, the slowing of routines as school begins, the days get shorter, and the food on our tables turns from salads to soups: Split pea, chicken noodle, and bean. We move from barbecued chicken and seafood to roast in brown sauce with carrots, turnips and potatoes.
I had my first piece of pumpkin pie the other night. Nothing says fall more than pumpkin pie. My mother-in-law is a big fan and so I told my wife, "We should get your mom one of those pies." Mother-in-law bonus points, plus a piece of pie. Score one for the daddy-o.
This last weekend was the first fall weekend, with indoor fun, snuggling, movies, and a certain inactivity that only people from colder or four-season climates seem to understand. The sunny weather folk get restless and depressed, but not me, not those like me. We hunker down with books, movies, family and loved ones and prepare to navigate the season that, to me, looks the most like intimacy.
All this from the scarlet leaves on the trees in Vandervelden.
I had my first piece of pumpkin pie the other night. Nothing says fall more than pumpkin pie. My mother-in-law is a big fan and so I told my wife, "We should get your mom one of those pies." Mother-in-law bonus points, plus a piece of pie. Score one for the daddy-o.
This last weekend was the first fall weekend, with indoor fun, snuggling, movies, and a certain inactivity that only people from colder or four-season climates seem to understand. The sunny weather folk get restless and depressed, but not me, not those like me. We hunker down with books, movies, family and loved ones and prepare to navigate the season that, to me, looks the most like intimacy.
All this from the scarlet leaves on the trees in Vandervelden.
Sunday, September 19, 2010
Life Is Good - Photographic Proof Included.
There is something about the seasonal shift between summer and fall that tends to overwhelm me in the best possible way. It seems like this shift brings with it an inescapable sigh of comfort and contentment. Take this weekend as an example of this.
Tracy and I had been planning on leaving town on Saturday and having out of town guests on Friday, but both of those things didn't work out for us for whatever reason. Well, I'm so glad it worked out this way. The weather outside has been cool and grey all weekend. We've invested our time in each other, in Shea, and in getting the house and our work organized. All of these things seem to have paid big dividends. For example, last night found us sitting together as a family and enjoying each others company as we watched a movie together. Just before Shea went to bed, she came to us and told us she loved us, loved being "family". Our hearts melted. Then, I couldn't resist grabbing her and tickling her until she almost wet herself. Afterward we took a moment to snuggle and snap a picture as a family. Here's some pictures to show you what I mean.
We put Shea to bed and Tracy and I simply sat on the couch together and watched a couple of movies. I can't even tell you the last time this happened. It's nothing spectacular, but it's a nice intimate moment that makes a marriage a continuous joy. Some may say it is laziness, or time not used to its fullest, but my heart was at rest in those moments. I felt at ease, off the pressure cooker, and I was simply glad to have that moment with Tracy.
The next morning afforded Tracy and I the chance to return to childhood. The opportunity came in the form of a fort. God I love these things! I used to build them all the time when I was young. Today I used five dining room chairs, Shea's trampoline with an upright handlebar, the dining room table, two California king-sized blankets and a bunch of binder clips to make the big daddy of forts. We spent a good two hours in there as a family, having tea parties, chasing dinosaurs, playing with the dog, and just being children. We forget at times to take these moments to play. I love being a kid. My only concern is that Shea is going to grow up before I do. Oh well, dads are supposed to embarrass their daughters, right? Here's what Shea thinks about that idea...
It's a dark picture, but she's for sure wearing a frown.
Tracy and I had been planning on leaving town on Saturday and having out of town guests on Friday, but both of those things didn't work out for us for whatever reason. Well, I'm so glad it worked out this way. The weather outside has been cool and grey all weekend. We've invested our time in each other, in Shea, and in getting the house and our work organized. All of these things seem to have paid big dividends. For example, last night found us sitting together as a family and enjoying each others company as we watched a movie together. Just before Shea went to bed, she came to us and told us she loved us, loved being "family". Our hearts melted. Then, I couldn't resist grabbing her and tickling her until she almost wet herself. Afterward we took a moment to snuggle and snap a picture as a family. Here's some pictures to show you what I mean.
The next morning afforded Tracy and I the chance to return to childhood. The opportunity came in the form of a fort. God I love these things! I used to build them all the time when I was young. Today I used five dining room chairs, Shea's trampoline with an upright handlebar, the dining room table, two California king-sized blankets and a bunch of binder clips to make the big daddy of forts. We spent a good two hours in there as a family, having tea parties, chasing dinosaurs, playing with the dog, and just being children. We forget at times to take these moments to play. I love being a kid. My only concern is that Shea is going to grow up before I do. Oh well, dads are supposed to embarrass their daughters, right? Here's what Shea thinks about that idea...
Saturday, September 18, 2010
A Nice, Quiet Evening...WAIT! CODE BROWN!
I've been working in my office for a couple of hours, trying to get ready for the classes that begin on Tuesday. Tracy and Shea have taken a nap, but now they are wandering around the downstairs chatting and playing. It's a charmingly domestic sound for me. I can hear their back and forth, their give and take. Shea is pretending to call her auntie on a fake phone while Tracy is knocking around in the kitchen making dinner. I feel relaxed, comfortable, at-home.
I hear the quick patter of Shea's feet and a quick, "Mommy? I have to go poop."
This is almost immediately followed by, "Uhhhhhhhhhhhh, Kyle?!" I can tell from Tracy's tone that something is rotten in Denmark. I get up from my desk and rush down the stairs. When I get to the bottom of the second flight I hear, "Don't walk through the living room! There's poop on the floor."
What I didn't tell you is that Shea was walking around the house without pants. She was jumping on her trampoline when something was, literally, knocked loose. She did her best, scrambling to the downstairs basement, but she left a trail of pooplets all across the living room floor.
So, as I step down off the last step I look down to see her Hansel and Gretel trail of "crumbs" on the floor. The dog is already chowing down on one of them. I grab the dog, shuffle her outside, and high step my way to the bathroom to help Tracy.
"Floor or Shea?" she asks me. I hate cleaning carpets so I vote for Shea. She's got poop smeared all the way down her legs, across her ass, and I really don't want to touch her. But, what can you do? I strip her shirt off and load her into the shower. I strip down and step in with her. Tracy goes about the slow task of getting poop out of carpet.
Good think we borrowed our friends' carpet shampooer already. Looks like I know what I'm doing tomorrow.
Ah well, what can you do. After all, it was bath night and now we got that chore out of the way.
I hear the quick patter of Shea's feet and a quick, "Mommy? I have to go poop."
This is almost immediately followed by, "Uhhhhhhhhhhhh, Kyle?!" I can tell from Tracy's tone that something is rotten in Denmark. I get up from my desk and rush down the stairs. When I get to the bottom of the second flight I hear, "Don't walk through the living room! There's poop on the floor."
What I didn't tell you is that Shea was walking around the house without pants. She was jumping on her trampoline when something was, literally, knocked loose. She did her best, scrambling to the downstairs basement, but she left a trail of pooplets all across the living room floor.
So, as I step down off the last step I look down to see her Hansel and Gretel trail of "crumbs" on the floor. The dog is already chowing down on one of them. I grab the dog, shuffle her outside, and high step my way to the bathroom to help Tracy.
"Floor or Shea?" she asks me. I hate cleaning carpets so I vote for Shea. She's got poop smeared all the way down her legs, across her ass, and I really don't want to touch her. But, what can you do? I strip her shirt off and load her into the shower. I strip down and step in with her. Tracy goes about the slow task of getting poop out of carpet.
Good think we borrowed our friends' carpet shampooer already. Looks like I know what I'm doing tomorrow.
Ah well, what can you do. After all, it was bath night and now we got that chore out of the way.
I'm a total masochist.
I'm a total masochist. I simply need to come to terms with this fact. I've been sitting here reworking lesson plans for the last two hours in an attempt to "freshen" up my courses.
I'm heading into one of the most difficult terms of my teaching life so far. One would think I would make it easy on myself and simply use what I've already got. Well, I can't. There are lesson plans in there that aren't as successful as I would like so I need to make new ones.
I'm not content to rest on my laurels and simply reproduce less than stellar lesson plans. I want to reach my students. I feel I owe it to them to always be bringing my A-game when I'm in that classroom. I understand that I'm making it hard on myself, but I think this is what is best for them and I can't deny it.
I've had some pretty spectacular teachers over the course of my lifetime: Mrs. Robinson (who made stories come alive), Mr. Mohr (who encouraged me to read everything I could get my hands on), Mr. Geddis (who was an example of a teacher and an artist at the same time), Mr. Sanvitale (who allowed me to take part in the literary magazine and "produce" something), Mr. Schaub (who nurtured the little dramatist in me), Mr. Dage (who taught me that I should write about something that wasn't me), Nellie Haddad (who told me I should never quit writing), John Rember (who slowed me down and taught me to focus), Pete Fromm (whose editorial voice never stops talking in the back of my head), Jack Driscoll (who tied the concepts of love and art together for me so I could create as an act of loving), and Claire Davis (who encouraged me to take the next step and launch myself as a professional while teaching me what it truly meant to revise).
There are more, but these are the ones who did it in the classroom. These are the ones I will never forget. I emulate them. I teach as a result of their teachings. I want to be as good as they were and I want to give my students the lessons they were able to give me.
So, yes, I may be a masochist, but the pain brings joy when a student learns something new, when their writing improves, or I get that rare student who goes from hating writing to loving it.
So, back to the lesson plans.
I'm heading into one of the most difficult terms of my teaching life so far. One would think I would make it easy on myself and simply use what I've already got. Well, I can't. There are lesson plans in there that aren't as successful as I would like so I need to make new ones.
I'm not content to rest on my laurels and simply reproduce less than stellar lesson plans. I want to reach my students. I feel I owe it to them to always be bringing my A-game when I'm in that classroom. I understand that I'm making it hard on myself, but I think this is what is best for them and I can't deny it.
I've had some pretty spectacular teachers over the course of my lifetime: Mrs. Robinson (who made stories come alive), Mr. Mohr (who encouraged me to read everything I could get my hands on), Mr. Geddis (who was an example of a teacher and an artist at the same time), Mr. Sanvitale (who allowed me to take part in the literary magazine and "produce" something), Mr. Schaub (who nurtured the little dramatist in me), Mr. Dage (who taught me that I should write about something that wasn't me), Nellie Haddad (who told me I should never quit writing), John Rember (who slowed me down and taught me to focus), Pete Fromm (whose editorial voice never stops talking in the back of my head), Jack Driscoll (who tied the concepts of love and art together for me so I could create as an act of loving), and Claire Davis (who encouraged me to take the next step and launch myself as a professional while teaching me what it truly meant to revise).
There are more, but these are the ones who did it in the classroom. These are the ones I will never forget. I emulate them. I teach as a result of their teachings. I want to be as good as they were and I want to give my students the lessons they were able to give me.
So, yes, I may be a masochist, but the pain brings joy when a student learns something new, when their writing improves, or I get that rare student who goes from hating writing to loving it.
So, back to the lesson plans.
Friday, September 17, 2010
A Smack on the Rear
Today I got the equivalent of a smack on the rear and a "good game" from two of my students. Class was adjourned, I was packing my bag, and the last two students left in the room stopped me to say, "It was a good class today. I really liked this exercise."
YAHOO!!!
This is one of the best compliments a student can give a teacher. They liked the exercise?! They learned something today?! They were able to connect to revision?! Ya-frickin'-hoo!
I had to quickly bustle off to my next class, but the students walked with me for a moment and were able to articulate what it was they liked about the lesson.
*Smack* "Good game, teach."
I'll take it.
YAHOO!!!
This is one of the best compliments a student can give a teacher. They liked the exercise?! They learned something today?! They were able to connect to revision?! Ya-frickin'-hoo!
I had to quickly bustle off to my next class, but the students walked with me for a moment and were able to articulate what it was they liked about the lesson.
*Smack* "Good game, teach."
I'll take it.
And....rest.
Okay, so I began this day with a sense of overload. I had a list of things I needed to get done in order to feel like I did something with my day. Well, how'd I do? Let's look back at this morning...
Go to DEQ and DMV for title transfer and new tags.
Take Tracy's car to mechanic to get broken dipstick out of engine.
Grade 22 resume cover letters.
Grade 3 purpose essays.
Create two syllabi for PCC classes.
Go to Shea's school to pay fees.
Pray that I can get everything done!!!
I created two new lesson plans surrounding peer review for two different classes, but I didn't get done with the syllabi.
I did have dinner with Tracy, Shea, and my in-laws.
I helped Tracy clean the house pretty thoroughly because we have company for dinner tomorrow.
Also, I went for a four mile run.
All in all, not a bad day. I didn't get everything done, but, you know what, who gives a damn. I can't. I'm tired and I need this day to be over before we put it into high gear again tomorrow. Wish me luck y'all.
Overload
Here's the to-do list for today. Pretty much all of these things MUST be done today:Go to DEQ and DMV for title transfer and new tags.
Take Tracy's car to mechanic to get broken dipstick out of engine.
Grade 22 resume cover letters.
Grade 3 purpose essays.
Create two syllabi for PCC classes.
Go to Shea's school to pay fees.
Pray that I can get everything done!!!
Well, I got the DEQ, but not the DMV.
I took Tracy's car to the mechanic, but he didn't have the dipstick in stock.
I graded the 22 cover letters.
I graded the 3 purpose essays.
I paid Shea's school fees, inquired about the school auction and our donations.I created two new lesson plans surrounding peer review for two different classes, but I didn't get done with the syllabi.
I did have dinner with Tracy, Shea, and my in-laws.
I helped Tracy clean the house pretty thoroughly because we have company for dinner tomorrow.
Also, I went for a four mile run.
All in all, not a bad day. I didn't get everything done, but, you know what, who gives a damn. I can't. I'm tired and I need this day to be over before we put it into high gear again tomorrow. Wish me luck y'all.
Thursday, September 16, 2010
This I Believe
In the 1950s there used to be a program called This I Believe. It was a radio program that invited people of all walks of life to share the beliefs that guided their lives. In 2004 it was revived as a non-profit organization that is dedicated to the same task.
You can hear selected essays from the database on public radio, but they also have a pretty impressive web presence here: http://thisibelieve.org/. I've always enjoyed the essays I've been fortunate enough to catch on the radio and so one day I sat down and decided that I was going to contribute to the online database.
I got an email today saying that my essay had been accepted and was being published online. It's hard for me to read the essay. I normally don't write nonfiction. If I do, it's private. I think this may be the only piece of nonfiction I have ever submitted. Anyway, you can find it here: http://thisibelieve.org/essay/84102/.
I encourage everyone to write a "This I believe..." statement or essay. It's a good exercise. Often times it is hard to declare our beliefs. We think we will be criticized for them or laughed at. I see it in my students sometimes. They are afraid of saying what they believe for fear of looking foolish or uncool. I may give this to them as an exercise in the coming weeks.
You can hear selected essays from the database on public radio, but they also have a pretty impressive web presence here: http://thisibelieve.org/. I've always enjoyed the essays I've been fortunate enough to catch on the radio and so one day I sat down and decided that I was going to contribute to the online database.
I got an email today saying that my essay had been accepted and was being published online. It's hard for me to read the essay. I normally don't write nonfiction. If I do, it's private. I think this may be the only piece of nonfiction I have ever submitted. Anyway, you can find it here: http://thisibelieve.org/essay/84102/.
I encourage everyone to write a "This I believe..." statement or essay. It's a good exercise. Often times it is hard to declare our beliefs. We think we will be criticized for them or laughed at. I see it in my students sometimes. They are afraid of saying what they believe for fear of looking foolish or uncool. I may give this to them as an exercise in the coming weeks.
Overload
Here's the to-do list for today. Pretty much all of these things MUST be done today:
Go to DEQ and DMV for title transfer and new tags.
Take Tracy's car to mechanic to get broken dipstick out of engine.
Grade 22 resume cover letters.
Grade 3 purpose essays.
Create two syllabi for PCC classes.
Go to Shea's school to pay fees.
Pray that I can get everything done!!!
Go to DEQ and DMV for title transfer and new tags.
Take Tracy's car to mechanic to get broken dipstick out of engine.
Grade 22 resume cover letters.
Grade 3 purpose essays.
Create two syllabi for PCC classes.
Go to Shea's school to pay fees.
Pray that I can get everything done!!!
Tuesday, September 14, 2010
Dear Jeremy
Dear Jeremy,
Your text message came to me today from what seemed like the furthest reaches of the ether. I was sitting at my kitchen table grading purpose essays. Your kind and loving words caused a weird confluence of events that made me feel I needed to sit down and write this letter. Some explanation may be necessary.
First, the "purpose" essay I assigned my students had them writing about their personal "good". I asked them to tell me what they work toward, what they yearn to achieve that had to do with goodness, not ambition. I asked them to visualize their best selves. Then, I asked them to look at their real selves and write a letter to someone they trusted that laid out what they needed to do to actualize that potential in themselves.
Well, dude, you are my letter. By writing to me today and giving me encouragement, in combination with the essays I'd been reading, I felt I should write my own rough draft version of the purpose essay. So, here goes:
My life is a series of deadlines, responsibilities, and commitments. Most of those commitments originate in work but some come from the family. The good I seek in my life, and for the good of my family and friends (and students) is balance. I want to feel like I am giving attention where attention is due. I want to feel like I have the realms of work, family, friendship, and art well in balance. Right now I don't feel that way. I feel out of touch, askew even.
If I truly want to maintain this balance, I'm going to have to make some hard decisions and some compromises. The first of which is going to come in terms of how I grade. I am going to have to give a little bit less to my students in terms of feedback. I simply cannot maintain the level of output I've been giving them lately. This feels bad, wrong even, but it is the reality of the situation. I'm not giving up on them, quite the contrary, I'm fighting against myself to work in their favor, but the realities of time and energy are a constant battle that I must wage and there might be some casualties along the way.
Also, I want to be more deeply present when I am at home. I don't want to be eating dinner with my family or playing with them and feel like my mind is divided. I need to be better at compartmentalizing the way I think about work and my other commitments.
It may seem like a selfish goal...balance...but I think that everyone will win if I am in alignment with myself and my own capabilities. I must do this. I must do it for myself, my daughter, my wife, my students, and my art (which I didn't touch on here but value highly). This is my good. This is what I strive for. This is what I hope to one day come close to. I will not stop. I refuse to stop. I believe in it as my greatest good right now. I believe. That feels good to say. I believe.
I've attached a photo of the workspace I'm writing from. Cluttered, full of commitments, but presided over by a wonderful bouquet of fresh dahlias from my home town. Also note that tucked behind the flowers is a wonderful graphic novel Maus that is meant for my enjoyment and not work. I'm trying.
I love you, Jer. Thanks for inadvertently sending me down this road. You're a good friend. I'll see you soon.
Kyle
Your text message came to me today from what seemed like the furthest reaches of the ether. I was sitting at my kitchen table grading purpose essays. Your kind and loving words caused a weird confluence of events that made me feel I needed to sit down and write this letter. Some explanation may be necessary.
First, the "purpose" essay I assigned my students had them writing about their personal "good". I asked them to tell me what they work toward, what they yearn to achieve that had to do with goodness, not ambition. I asked them to visualize their best selves. Then, I asked them to look at their real selves and write a letter to someone they trusted that laid out what they needed to do to actualize that potential in themselves.
Well, dude, you are my letter. By writing to me today and giving me encouragement, in combination with the essays I'd been reading, I felt I should write my own rough draft version of the purpose essay. So, here goes:
My life is a series of deadlines, responsibilities, and commitments. Most of those commitments originate in work but some come from the family. The good I seek in my life, and for the good of my family and friends (and students) is balance. I want to feel like I am giving attention where attention is due. I want to feel like I have the realms of work, family, friendship, and art well in balance. Right now I don't feel that way. I feel out of touch, askew even.
If I truly want to maintain this balance, I'm going to have to make some hard decisions and some compromises. The first of which is going to come in terms of how I grade. I am going to have to give a little bit less to my students in terms of feedback. I simply cannot maintain the level of output I've been giving them lately. This feels bad, wrong even, but it is the reality of the situation. I'm not giving up on them, quite the contrary, I'm fighting against myself to work in their favor, but the realities of time and energy are a constant battle that I must wage and there might be some casualties along the way.
Also, I want to be more deeply present when I am at home. I don't want to be eating dinner with my family or playing with them and feel like my mind is divided. I need to be better at compartmentalizing the way I think about work and my other commitments.
It may seem like a selfish goal...balance...but I think that everyone will win if I am in alignment with myself and my own capabilities. I must do this. I must do it for myself, my daughter, my wife, my students, and my art (which I didn't touch on here but value highly). This is my good. This is what I strive for. This is what I hope to one day come close to. I will not stop. I refuse to stop. I believe in it as my greatest good right now. I believe. That feels good to say. I believe.
I've attached a photo of the workspace I'm writing from. Cluttered, full of commitments, but presided over by a wonderful bouquet of fresh dahlias from my home town. Also note that tucked behind the flowers is a wonderful graphic novel Maus that is meant for my enjoyment and not work. I'm trying.
I love you, Jer. Thanks for inadvertently sending me down this road. You're a good friend. I'll see you soon.
Kyle
Monday, September 13, 2010
Uptight
I arrive on campus as a nervous, sweaty wreck. I slept last night instead of formalizing lesson plans (due to exhaustion, not laziness) and I feel unprepared. I know the reading assignments. I've read them all, so that is out of the way, but what is the craft lesson? What am I supposed to SAY today?
As I frantically rework the lesson plan I wrote days before, I feel myself begin to panic. Thoughts of discredit and public shame and humiliation plague me, and then the thought comes. It comes in the form of my office mate, LV. She enters the room, asks me how I'm doing, and then proceeds to share with me some of her personal life.
I hate to say it, but it made me feel better. I realized that my problems are small and transitory. LV reminded me that there is a whole big world out there with life going on. I printed my lesson plans and resolved to allow the students to take on the heavier burden of class.
What happened?
Well, it worked. By not being planned down to the absolute limit of the class period, I allowed more room for discussion, for the students' voice. I realized I don't have to be the one with all the answers. Quite the contrary, I should be the one who is full of questions. Let the students find the answers for themselves.
Both my classes went well today and I'm glad. Maybe now I will loosen up a bit and not try so hard to schedule their education.
As I frantically rework the lesson plan I wrote days before, I feel myself begin to panic. Thoughts of discredit and public shame and humiliation plague me, and then the thought comes. It comes in the form of my office mate, LV. She enters the room, asks me how I'm doing, and then proceeds to share with me some of her personal life.
I hate to say it, but it made me feel better. I realized that my problems are small and transitory. LV reminded me that there is a whole big world out there with life going on. I printed my lesson plans and resolved to allow the students to take on the heavier burden of class.
What happened?
Well, it worked. By not being planned down to the absolute limit of the class period, I allowed more room for discussion, for the students' voice. I realized I don't have to be the one with all the answers. Quite the contrary, I should be the one who is full of questions. Let the students find the answers for themselves.
Both my classes went well today and I'm glad. Maybe now I will loosen up a bit and not try so hard to schedule their education.
Saturday, September 11, 2010
Avoidance
I've been avoiding dramas lately. I've been content with comedies, sitcoms, documentaries, and other forms of entertainment, but I've consistently avoided any kind of drama lately. I think it's because I have a drama unfolding within me.
I just finished watching "Precious" and I'm feeling called to the page now. Why have I been resistant? Why have I stayed away for so long? I can't tell you, but the movie stirred up something in me that makes me want to connect to the larger human experience. Maybe I needed permission? I don't know, but I'm going to sign off this blog and get back to it.
I just finished watching "Precious" and I'm feeling called to the page now. Why have I been resistant? Why have I stayed away for so long? I can't tell you, but the movie stirred up something in me that makes me want to connect to the larger human experience. Maybe I needed permission? I don't know, but I'm going to sign off this blog and get back to it.
Thursday, September 9, 2010
Friendly Boundaries
It's always hard to deal with a friend after they've lost someone close to them. My friend Kevin got home from New Zealand last night and we met for a beer today. It was light and casual. You know the kind of thing...dick and fart jokes. We laughed a lot. It was fun, but I wonder if I'm being a good friend by not giving him some kind of outlet for his grief.
I think this is what he wants and so I will give it to him for now. Somewhere down the line I will check in and make sure he is doing okay, but I don't want to press the issue if he isn't volunteering.
I think this is what he wants and so I will give it to him for now. Somewhere down the line I will check in and make sure he is doing okay, but I don't want to press the issue if he isn't volunteering.
Tuesday, September 7, 2010
Who Is This Little Person?
In the blurry first moments of the morning, I didn't notice her. Not really. Not as she was. It took a moment.
I washed oatmeal from my daughter's bowl and poured myself a cup of coffee without knowing the next couple of moments would be as intense as they were. I turned around after cleaning up and was confronted with this image:
For the parents out there in cyberspace, you probably already know what this blog post is about. It's about the moments when you turn around and realize your child is something other than what you thought them to be. In this case, my daughter is a little girl, not a baby. I'd been reminded of this all weekend long as we vacationed with three other families, but it wasn't until this moment, with this outfit, that I seemed to really see what was happening in front of my eyes.
I was saddened for a moment, but then she turned to me and said, "Come on," in that quiet voice of hers. She took my hand and led me out the door so I could drive her to school. She's a lovely little girl, the fruit of a loving, yet strict, upbringing, and she exceeds my expectations in so many ways.
I've been flipping my phone on and off all morning, gazing at her picture, but I finally had to sit down and put some words to the image. She fills me up, inspires me, and brings me back to the keyboard. Life is good.
I washed oatmeal from my daughter's bowl and poured myself a cup of coffee without knowing the next couple of moments would be as intense as they were. I turned around after cleaning up and was confronted with this image:
I was saddened for a moment, but then she turned to me and said, "Come on," in that quiet voice of hers. She took my hand and led me out the door so I could drive her to school. She's a lovely little girl, the fruit of a loving, yet strict, upbringing, and she exceeds my expectations in so many ways.
I've been flipping my phone on and off all morning, gazing at her picture, but I finally had to sit down and put some words to the image. She fills me up, inspires me, and brings me back to the keyboard. Life is good.
Monday, September 6, 2010
Labor Day Weekend
Let's start with breaking down the numbers:
9 kids
8 adults
3 days
1 house
While the Labor Day weekend was hectic and full of ups and downs, I have to say I really had a good time. It was nice to just sit with old friends and talk. The kids were a handful for sure, but my days were filled with pitching baseball, playing Frisbee, kicking the soccer ball, going for a run, riding bikes, and swimming. There is something about having kids and the return to your own youth, the ability to play games, and enjoy yourself that is so liberating. I really am blessed.
9 kids
8 adults
3 days
1 house
While the Labor Day weekend was hectic and full of ups and downs, I have to say I really had a good time. It was nice to just sit with old friends and talk. The kids were a handful for sure, but my days were filled with pitching baseball, playing Frisbee, kicking the soccer ball, going for a run, riding bikes, and swimming. There is something about having kids and the return to your own youth, the ability to play games, and enjoy yourself that is so liberating. I really am blessed.
Friday, September 3, 2010
Screaming
"I'd do it again."
This is the problematic phrase. I know it's the problematic phrase, but I say it again. The reason it's problematic is because the motivation behind it isn't understood. They don't understand why I did it in the first place, have never given me an opportunity to explain. So, I scream. I scream hateful, vindictive things because I won't be heard otherwise. I feel ashamed, dejected, and lonely. Once again, I'm alone in a house with other people. It's becoming a familiar feeling.
So, now what?
Well, it'll be dropped. It won't be discussed. I'll never get a chance to be understood. So, I'll continue screaming inside my head and my heart. I've heard their arguments. I've been able to recite them back to them, but every time I ask for the same, they don't know what I've said, they haven't heard me, so I wonder why I speak at all.
I feel myself turning into a monster. There is rage and scorn battering behind my eyes. I don't recognize myself in these moments. I'm overcome, pushed to the back of my brain as the reptile in me, the lizard brain, moves forward and takes control.
I breathe, and again.
Today is a new day. I wonder how deep the silence will run.
This is the problematic phrase. I know it's the problematic phrase, but I say it again. The reason it's problematic is because the motivation behind it isn't understood. They don't understand why I did it in the first place, have never given me an opportunity to explain. So, I scream. I scream hateful, vindictive things because I won't be heard otherwise. I feel ashamed, dejected, and lonely. Once again, I'm alone in a house with other people. It's becoming a familiar feeling.
So, now what?
Well, it'll be dropped. It won't be discussed. I'll never get a chance to be understood. So, I'll continue screaming inside my head and my heart. I've heard their arguments. I've been able to recite them back to them, but every time I ask for the same, they don't know what I've said, they haven't heard me, so I wonder why I speak at all.
I feel myself turning into a monster. There is rage and scorn battering behind my eyes. I don't recognize myself in these moments. I'm overcome, pushed to the back of my brain as the reptile in me, the lizard brain, moves forward and takes control.
I breathe, and again.
Today is a new day. I wonder how deep the silence will run.
Wednesday, September 1, 2010
It's just too big!!!
Okay, first of all, get your mind out of the gutter. Second, I'm talking about my perspective. Lately I have been driving myself insane about food and environment issues. Today, I sat in the Taylor-Meade auditorium and listened to two speakers from opposing sides of the issue give their perspectives and answer questions. The result?
It's all too big. I can't get my mind around it. I listened to both sides with equal parts concentration and interest, but I found myself wandering back to my office afterward in a daze. I opened my vegetarian lunch and began surfing the web a bit. I hit Google up for some local news on my hometown and I was surprised at all the information it brought back to me.
Well, this led to a thought. What if I narrow my perspective a bit? I can't think globally, hell, I can barely find my keys half the time, but I can think locally. I can think in terms of my community. I can think of the activities, the politics, and the capacities of my own town, my own county, my own region. I need to find a way to turn my passions into action and I think the only way to do that is to "think small."
It's all too big. I can't get my mind around it. I listened to both sides with equal parts concentration and interest, but I found myself wandering back to my office afterward in a daze. I opened my vegetarian lunch and began surfing the web a bit. I hit Google up for some local news on my hometown and I was surprised at all the information it brought back to me.
Well, this led to a thought. What if I narrow my perspective a bit? I can't think globally, hell, I can barely find my keys half the time, but I can think locally. I can think in terms of my community. I can think of the activities, the politics, and the capacities of my own town, my own county, my own region. I need to find a way to turn my passions into action and I think the only way to do that is to "think small."
Oh Annie, I love you!
Anne Lamott wrote an essay called "Shitty First Drafts" and it's fabulous. Since I discovered it I've taught it in every class I teach. It's one of the first essays I assign. I find students latch on to the profanity of the title and then really enjoy the humor of the piece. What I don't tell them is that I read it over and over again because it brings me great comfort. The idea that I don't have to write something that is perfect, or even whole, is liberating. I forget this at times. I'm not saying that I think my first drafts are either perfect or whole, but what I do trick myself into believing sometimes is that they SHOULD BE.
This is an inspiration killer. This is the silent brain assassin that lives in my office. That "should be" sneaks up on me when I am in the middle of something and finds a comma splice, an inaccurate word, or a stale, cliched image. In the past I've often had conversations with my mother about that phrase. "You should..." is one of my least favorite things to hear. Whenever someone tells me what I should or should not be doing, it's them trying to control and dominate me. Well, I do it to myself sometimes too. I try to control and dominate my own inspiration, my own creativity, and it does not bear fruit.
So, I teach Anne Lamott and I keep writing shitty first drafts. It's liberating. And so I head into the classroom today to tell students that they "should" relax and write shitty first drafts.
This is an inspiration killer. This is the silent brain assassin that lives in my office. That "should be" sneaks up on me when I am in the middle of something and finds a comma splice, an inaccurate word, or a stale, cliched image. In the past I've often had conversations with my mother about that phrase. "You should..." is one of my least favorite things to hear. Whenever someone tells me what I should or should not be doing, it's them trying to control and dominate me. Well, I do it to myself sometimes too. I try to control and dominate my own inspiration, my own creativity, and it does not bear fruit.
So, I teach Anne Lamott and I keep writing shitty first drafts. It's liberating. And so I head into the classroom today to tell students that they "should" relax and write shitty first drafts.
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