When I was little I couldn’t say February. My mother coached me by saying, “Bru. February. Bru.” For many years, I knew this second month as “Fevuarybru,” having misinterpreted her dedicated coaching. My siblings still tease me about it, and when I was younger, I felt a little ashamed. Now, the truth is I’m grateful for this memory of my mother’s involvement in my young life. She clearly took some time to try to teach me.

One benefit of mispronouncing February was that I never had trouble spelling February. I knew the “bru” part. I had that down. I remember getting praise for my ability to spell it from teachers who were dismayed at the variety of ways students could misspell it. Of course, that was back in the day when spelling and handwriting were valued differently than they are today.

This little memory reminds me that lessons taught with love usually have a way of working themselves out even though we can’t foresee ultimate outcomes.

Maybe I’m trying too hard to draw meaning from a little thing like mispronouncing a word, but the warmth of this memory tells me it did mean something. I remember her every time I write the word, February.

I heard Janet Wong speak at the National Book Festival a few years ago. She said four words that stuck in my mind. “Writing relieves the memory.” I thought how often that has been true for me. Whether writing in a journal, on a calendar, or on a list, there is an accompanying peace knowing that whatever “it” is, is written down.

This week I found that writing not only relieved my memory, it relieved something much deeper. I woke on January 26 with heaviness I could hardly bear. It took every ounce of willpower to get myself to work. I had a full day ahead and was anxious about the weight I carried with me.

I entered my classroom and shut the door. I sat down at my computer and drafted bits and pieces of what I was battling inside. Then I left it on the page. Writing was the relief I needed to be able to proceed with my day. I returned to that writing tonight and revised a bit.

I think I will share it here and thank you for reading.

1.26.18

Winter demons pound on my door.

Seductive voices call me to yield to the dark.

“Just slip into our arms and rest,” they say.

“There’s no expectation here.

No growth required.

Nothing to care for.

Give in.

Just give in.”

It might be easier.

It might be warmer under blankets of darkness.

After all, I know these demons—

These familiar foes–whose cold oblivion never provides.

The sun smirks as she withholds heat.

She allows wind the upper hand.

I draw inward and glimmers of light

Hush the demons’ alluring call.

Tuesday’s Joys

The soft, damp air of a balmy January morning

The pride on first-grade faces when spelling said

The noticeably longer bit of daylight

The (okay, I admit it) chewy lump of caramel from a handful of Milk Duds

The empathetic, sincere letters second graders wrote to Ox from Gazelle after reading

(It might be a new favorite book and a must read for all ages)

The intense pleasure my daughter finds in watching Top Chef

The few moments to spend here with you, my writing friends and mentors

Having given myself both permission and the challenge to listen through my OLW, I am finding a new freedom from the need to say something. In a very personal way, the quiet is leading me to deeper understanding of the people I am trying to love. Listening is providing me time to reflect on past conversations as I rethink the sounds and meanings of words I have heard and said. I’m realizing that I have so much to be grateful for. I also have need to acknowledge those blessings. I believe listening to those I love creates a gentle respect and awareness of their individual worth.

This gives me hope.

I was shocked when I pulled up my blog and saw that I hadn’t written since September! It’s time to begin again.

So, I’ll begin again with my One Little Word (OLW) for 2018. It’s a simple word: Listen.

Listen before speaking.

Listen for what is said.

Listen for what is not said.

Listen for beauty.

Listen for change.

Listen between the words, in the small spaces where meaning breathes.

Listen to rain, birds, wind, footsteps, frogs, and all sound.

Then, listen in silence.

I like this One Little Word.

I’m working in a 3rd grade classroom this fall launching reading workshop. The classroom teacher and I have not always seen eye-to-eye so I was a bit nervous entering her classroom.

Last week, while teaching a lesson on what it means to have a reading life, I shared a bit of my life as a reader. I became an avid reader despite having no memories of being read to. When I was seven, my mother gave me a beautiful book of fairy tales illustrated by Tasha Tudor. The words were too hard for me to read, but I spent hours looking at the pictures. I still have the book. It is a prized possession. I told the students about my love for this book and how I always wished I could have a dress like Cinderella’s.  After my lesson, a young Vietnamese girl came up to me and said, “Mrs. Miner, when you showed us that book, I was in a whole new world.” That may be one of my happiest teaching moments.

In looking for a photo, I just learned that I own a first edition of this fairy tale book. I love that my mother took the time to find a book she thought I would love. Later, I discovered more of Tasha Tudor’s work and her passion for gardening.

Tasha Tudor lived in New England, was the daughter of a portrait artist, and believed that if you had only a little money, you should buy as many of one kind of flower as possible to make a big splash. I love that.

I spent most of the summer being Grandma. It felt so good to see my children as parents of interesting, capable, young people. We welcomed a new baby, an 8 lb. 12 oz. wonderful boy. Even though I don’t feel “old” enough to have 10 grandchildren, I am deeply grateful for each one. My summer–in a list:

• played and swam at the pool
• treated to ice cream
• spent a fortune on groceries
• cooked and cleaned; repeated often
• read books
• pitched balls
• sang lullabies
• went to a hiphop program
• watched softball games
• hiked in the woods
• washed little clothes
• rocked the baby
• fed the yellow lab, Champ
• got to know Charlie, the labradoodle puppy
• pushed strollers
• marveled at the wonder of childhood

In this time of uncertainty in the world, it comforts me to know family love thrives–that imperfect people can join in loving ways, forgiving when necessary and laughing often. When my kids get going on rapid-fire text messaging, all five of them join in, communicating in the familiar patterns that define sibling relationships. I’m happy to be included, although I have to be quick-fingered to keep up. Mostly, I smile.

I’m still transitioning to full-speed-ahead teaching, but I carry warm, summer memories to sustain me in the days ahead.

Note: Hoping to bring “greenbelt” writing to my teachers and their students! Thank you, Ralph Fletcher! I attended the JoyFest in Maine with Ralph Fletcher and Barry Lane. More about that next time!

I’m almost finished closing out my classroom after taking care of mountains of books, testing systems, literacy files, and reflecting on the school improvement plan. It has been a full, full year. I’m tired, but at peace. I did the best I could. Finally, I feel that is enough.

I’ve brought home a stack of professional books to read and ideas are percolating for next year’s challenges. I know the few weeks of summer will go too fast and then we’ll begin again. It’s good that we pause to reflect, recharge, and renew.

My renewal began today when my daughter called to FaceTime with me. (I know FaceTime is a noun, but used here as a verb. Funny, how our language is changing.) Her two-year old daughter just cracks me up. She has learned how to do the splits; although when her mom asked her to do the splits, she did a perfect downward dog! But with some coaxing, I did witness our two-year old wonder doing the splits. I can’t stop smiling about it. Such simple things bring such joy.

I can’t think what the equivalent action would be at my age. I certainly can’t attempt the splits. That would not be wise. But what could I do that would bring such triumph, pleasure, and joy? I need to ponder that question some more. There has to be an answer. Maybe it will show up in my writing soon.

Today feels like a good news, bad news day.

Daniel passed state testing – good news.

Carlos did not – bad news.

I began a workout program again – good news.

I learned a friend has uterine cancer – bad news.

My principal agreed to buy more books – good news.

The federal budget proposal – bad news.

My peonies bloomed – good news.

Their fragrance makes me sneeze – bad news.

My baby is coming tonight with her baby – good news.

I’ll just leave it at that – good news.

“Do you have the patience to wait till your mud settles and the water is clear? Can you remain unmoving till the right action arises by itself?” Lao Tzu

It’s that time of year when life speeds up as tree pollen bursts to ignite the senses. Strange weather changes day by day; hot, then cold; dry, then wet. Heavy rains fill ditches and stream beds. The river is muddy, high and turbulent. Greens of every shade are exploding on tree limbs, vines, and grasses.

It’s the time when kindergarteners and first graders take giant steps in their learning. They are suddenly taller. It’s time for the fifth grade play, field trips, IEP eligibility meetings, and planning for next year, when this year isn’t quite through. It’s exciting and exhausting. It can get muddy as we try to do so many things at once.

In this space, I’m trying to “hold onto my hat,” listen more, and stress less. I’m letting go a bit, knowing that this is part of the rhythm of school. I want my students to be able to see their own growth this year, so I share my observations of their progress. I tell them to notice what is easy now, when it used to be hard. Their motivation swells like the water-filled soil. When their mud settles, I hope they see clearly all that has been learned and all that is yet to be learned.