There was a time when my friend was so angry at the world she turned away a woman who came to her door offering a plate of homemade cookies.

“I don’t want your damn cookies,” she said and shut the door.

On one level it was true. Cookies weren’t going to solve any of the problems she faced.

We don’t usually get to choose how others try to help us. People do what they can in the ways they know.

I realize how often I might hold back giving because of this sad experience. I worry that my cookies aren’t the right response to another’s pain. I need to get over that! I’m thinking I’ll try taking cookies to someone again. The important thing is that my hands reach to another’s.

Do you love World of Dance (WOD)? I do. Right now, I’m a little distracted because it’s a show I enjoy; this is a very full week; I haven’t quite prepared for tomorrow; AND I haven’t yet written. So, I confess I’m writing and watching and thinking about the Learning Circle I’m supposed to facilitate tomorrow. Our Learning Circle is studying growth mindset. Tomorrow our discussion is going to center on five stances described by Kristi Mraz and Christine Hertz in their book, A Mindset for Learning.

We often talk about lenses affecting the way we see things and how they influence how we see our students and their learning. The stances invite us to approach life and learning from different spaces. At least that is how I’m interpreting it. The five stances are optimism, flexibility, persistence, resilience, and empathy. We hear these words often in current media of all types. I hope they don’t just become “buzz” words that lose their power by overuse.

I’m thinking how the performers on World of Dance are mostly young people who certainly exhibit many of these stances (especially flexibility:). I think of all the practice, the dreams, the sacrifice of time and money, all to pursue something beautiful and creative with the body as the instrument. What has allowed these young people to be able to have the goal of performing on World of Dance? When you hear their individual stories, they are varied. Some come from poverty, so it’s not just about opportunity. Some have lost parents or siblings, so it’s not just about family support. What systems of thinking were awakened in them? How? When?

Lenses, stances, and the work. Maybe the dancers’ success is more about the work. In the book, “the work” includes self-talk, storytelling, goal-setting, and reflection. These are the parts to practice. Do I know what self-talk sounds like? What stories are being told with and without words? Is there a goal with a plan? Is there time to rest and reflect?

I have a lot more questions than answers. In the meantime, I’ll enjoy the energy of young dancers, the beauty of an art form I always longed to do, and the ways that dance expresses so much that is universal.

Tonight I was aurally transported. I attended a choral concert of Gabriel Faure’s Requiem in Falls Church, Virginia, and instantly, my mind went to Salzburg, Austria in the spring of 1974. Hearing this elegant, ethereal, even transluscent, piece of music brought back many memories.

I was a young college student spending six months studying abroad in Salzburg with a group of 55 students. Our dormitory was an old hotel that had been rented by the university in Elsbethen, a small town about an hour from the city. Our meals were prepared for us in the hotel. I’d never been a potato eater, but I soon learned that I would starve if I didn’t potatoes. I ended up gaining 20 pounds. Everything tasted so good. Across the street was a small grocery with a barn next to it. The smells of rural Austria in the spring were pungent and new to me.

Part of our educational experience in Salzburg included an agreement between our university and the Mozarteum, a music conservatory in the city, that we students who wanted to could sing in the Mozarteum choir. Many of us also studied piano, cello, and in my case, harpsichord. (That’s another story.) The choir rehearsed every Tuesday afternoon as I recall.

Our choir director was a graduate student in conducting who was preparing a spring concert as his final project before graduation. He was in his twenties. He had long brown hair, very bad teeth, and smoked during rehearsals. He wore tight blue jeans, white T-shirt, boots, and a leather jacket. He looked, to me, like he belonged on a Harley or in a rock-n-roll band, more than as a classical musician wielding a baton. He sat on a stool with his back hunched as he studied the music score in front of him. His English was better than my German which made me nervous as he spoke German when he was frustrated.

We practiced and practiced over many weeks. I grew to know this music so that I heard it in my mind while I walked the foothills, while I did my homework, while I fell asleep. My religious background did not include learning the Latin words of the traditional Requiem form, but I came to feel the power of the text:

Kyrie Eleison
Offertory
Sanctus
Agnus Dei
Pie Jesu
Libera Me, Domine
In Paradisum

I stood next to my friend, Anne, on the night of the performance. I remember looking out at a large audience of strangers in this very old, but grand, concert hall. Then our conductor came out on stage, transformed (as men always are) in a tuxedo. Everything came together that night into an evening of transcendence for me as a young musician. I experienced something I had never known before and can’t really describe, but I know it as something that satisfies me deeply on a level that is unequaled. Sound, energy, heart, vibration, community, unity. It’s the most alive experience to participate in a musical ensemble. It was sheer beauty. Maybe for me, that performance was like a first successful marathon, or a first view of Grand Canyon, or being at the feet of Jesus.

I returned there tonight.

The Mozarteum, Salzburg, Austria
(wikipedia photo)

Here’s a link to In Paradisum, sung by The Cambridge Singers:

If, as Rabindranath Tagore wrote, “Faith is the bird that feels the light while the dawn is still dark,”

Then, surely Hope is the purple crocus pushing up toward the light while the ground is still cold.

I always have several books going at once so that I have choices when I climb into bed at night. I love all things reading, so it might be fiction, nonfiction, memoir, essay, poetry, or professional reading about reading, writing, dyslexia, or engagement. I might read journals, even my own journals. I’m not yet choosing graphic novels for myself, and I don’t often choose fantasy, but I don’t fully exclude them either.

When I was sick earlier this week, I started reading The Great Alone by Kristin Hannah. I loved another book by her, The Nightingale, so I was looking forward to more. I’m about halfway through the book (I’m not a very fast reader). Typically, as a reader, if I own the book, I fold down the corners of pages that have passages which hit me powerfully. There’s a special satisfaction for readers, especially readers who write (I think), when a passage is crafted in a way that you suddenly realize you are holding your breath, or you wish with all your soul that you had penned those words. Or, when you realize you have just read truth.

Such was the case when I read these words of 16-year old, Leni, on p. 117:

She saw how death impacted people, saw the glazed look in their eyes, the way they shook their heads, the way their sentences broke in half as if they couldn’t decide if silence or words would release them from sorrow. 

Wow, just wow. I don’t know about you, but in my view, Ms. Hannah nailed it.

It was nearly the end of a very busy day catching up after being out of school for two days. My last little group of first graders was reading Chicken Little. They nailed their reading with expression, and I was really pleased with progress we are beginning to see. When each of them had finished, I was ready to transition to some writing work, but was stopped by Praise.

Praise: Wait! I have a question. How did Chicken Little even know where the king lived?

Me: That’s a really interesting question.

Miles: Maybe she had been to the king’s castle to visit. OR, maybe she was friends with the princess!

Me: That sounds like a story you could write!

I’m still smiling. I never get tired of observing the workings of the minds of first graders.

After a difficult night of GI distress, I woke up and wished I had some Jello. Jello made by my mom. I’m a grandmother and still wish I had my mom, especially when I’m sick. Lacking the energy to get up to make Jello, I stayed in bed and read The Great Alone by Kristin Hannah. Reading in the morning is the only good part of being sick.

Later, I shuffled out to the kitchen in my grape-purple fleece robe and slippers and scrounged around in the cupboards. Jello! I opened the box and poured the sugar mix in a pretty bowl. It took a few minutes for water the to boil. I waited and stared out the kitchen window.

When I poured the boiling water into the bowl, the warm orangeness took me immediately to my mother’s side in the kitchen at 1634 Cecile Street. I saw again her beautiful hands stirring gently, the spoon making tiny circles in the hot liquid. She was always careful to be sure all the gelatin dissolved. I felt again the softness of her arms and could smell her freshly powdered skin. I was probably in the way, but she never said so. She just quietly went about her work.

I think my mother believed Jello worked magic. Whenever we were sick, she let us pick the color and she would make us our own bowl of plain Jello. Coming from the West, she knew hundreds of ways to “dress up” Jello, most of which I didn’t like. I was a picky eater then.

Green Jello with canned pears. Orange Jello with mandarin oranges and bananas. Orange Jello with grated carrots and pineapple.  Red Jello with canned frozen raspberries. Grape Jello, lemon Jello and blackberry Jello, on occasion. For Thanksgiving, red Jello with cranberry sauce, celery, pecans, and crushed pineapple. Thankfully, she wasn’t too much into making the Jello with cream cheese or Jello with cottage cheese, but she did enjoy it when other people did. For a while, it was popular to add Coke, Sprite, or Pepsi to your Jello. That made it really special. Once I was even offered green Jello made into a mold with chicken salad ingredients – chicken, celery, eggs, even mayonnaise. Not my favorite.

By now, my bowl of plain orange Jello will be set and when I scoop it out of the bowl and it makes that slurping/sucking sound that only scooped Jello can make, I’ll smile and remember my mom. I’ll eat it slowly and let it dissolve in my mouth, knowing I’ll feel better soon.

My friend, Sally, posted today about time. She observed that while each day has the same 24 hours, the amount of time we feel we have can vary from day to day.

That makes me think of the time spent each March writing and reading all the wonderful posts at Two Writing Teachers. Why am I able to carve out time each day in March to write, but the rest of the year I am more sporadic? I guess it’s about the commitment, the challenge, and the desire. Nothing new there.

I think what is new(er) to me this year is how lost I can get in reading and responding to other bloggers. I love reading blogs with different voices, different forms, and different life experiences. What I notice and appreciate is how so many are willing to take risks, to share teaching plans, reading responses, and heart-wrenching stories. I read one and then I tell myself, “Just one more.” Then, another and another. I’m going to have to put myself on a blog budget!

Our humanity is affirmed through our sharing our writing.

the baby’s breath
the flutter of wings
the quake of aspen leaves
the air through a flute
the breath which scatters dandelion seeds
the whispers of morning air
the weary exhale

each is enough

to spark embers of fire

My Saturday mornings are usually spent with an hour of personal training followed by an hour of gentle yoga. The hour of gentle yoga is the reward I give myself for doing the strength training first.

I’m just recently getting back to exercise after an extended illness. It has been challenging! I didn’t realize how much and how fast my strength and stamina had declined. I heard recently that as we age we lose muscle mass at an accelerated rate. It takes more work to maintain strength and balance as we age.

Today our yoga class was focused on the intersection of the psychology of play and the philosophy of the Yoga Sutras. It was such a fun class and gave me a lot to think about educationally. The five big ideas of play are described by Peter Gray, Ph.D in an article from Psychology Today. It’s not a new article, but it still rings true. You can access it here.

(1) Play is self-chosen and self-directed. Yoga teaches us to study the self and notice how our choices impact our bodies and minds. So we did “Happy Baby” and wiggled our fingers and toes any way we wanted. Are children getting enough opportunities to choose and direct PLAY?

(2) Play is activity in which means are more valued than ends. Yoga teaches that we are all on a path of growth and that wherever we are is part of the process of becoming. So we played with modifying poses in creative ways, even silly ways. Do we give our students room to experience process more than product?

(3) Play has structure, or rules, which are not dictated by physical necessity but emanate from the minds of the players. The postures of yoga are only part of a practice leading to peace in the mind. So we played with doing a movement sequence while keeping a small paper plate balanced on our palms. Do students get opportunities to create the structures or rules to implement their ideas?

(4) Play is imaginative, non-literal, mentally removed in some way from “real” or “serious” life. Yoga is the time in our busy lives when we can unplug and free ourselves from the cares of work, family, and the world. So while we did tree pose, we tossed a tennis ball and then bounced a tennis ball. A few balls got away and we laughed. That reminded me of the magic of reading aloud. Read aloud. Read aloud. Read aloud.

(5) Play involves an active, alert, but non-stressed frame of mind. Yoga teaches us to be present and to enjoy the space that exists between effort and ease. Are we making our classrooms places where being active and alert learners is valued without putting pressures (like test scores) on them?

I am going to try to practice more playfulness in my life, my writing, and my work.