Now that my kids are grown, I am sometimes not as clued in to the rhythms of sports seasons. But tonight, as I watch The Natural, for the umteenth time, I’m reminded of the way my breath stops while watching a good game. The way I can be moved when the underdog hits that homerun or catches that fly ball. The edge-of-seat anticipation that mothers of pitchers feel.

I remember all the fun with my kids over the years quoting lines from their favorite baseball movies.

“You’re killing me, Smalls!” (The Sandlot)

“Is this heaven?

It’s Iowa.

Iowa? I could have sworn this was heaven.

Is there a heaven?

Oh yeah. It’s the place where dreams come true.

[Ray looks around, seeing his wife playing with their daughter on the porch]

Maybe this is heaven.” (Field of Dreams)

In fact, just as The Natural was ending, my son texted me his favorite line. “Pick me out a winner, Bobby.” His timing was uncanny, for not 30 seconds after reading his text, I heard the same line from Roy Hobbs (Robert Redford) on my TV. I smiled so big. That’s part of baseball’s magic. You can’t explain how it binds families. But it does. At least my family.

One of these days, I just may have to walk down the street to the Little League Park and see what’s up.

Sometimes when I play the piano, I get a feeling that the music connects me to something so much more than my human mind can comprehend. I remember a piano lesson I had in 1971 with Charles Crowder, the teacher who shaped me. I nearly worshipped him. I loved his hands, his cardigan sweaters, his bushy eyebrows, and even his ability to smoke and play at the same time. He was an artist-teacher-therapist who told my mother that it was his goal to light the fire in me. He worked and worked to draw me out of my shy self. We had side-by-side grand pianos and he would play with me to help me let go into the keys. When I played scales, he played them in the contrary direction or in harmony with another key. He could boogie and jazz up the most boring finger exercises. Mr. C. created an exercise specifically for me to help me break a habit of curling my pinky finger. He knew that habit could eventually hurt me physically. His exercise worked.

One time, I came to a crossroads in my piano study and was looking for something new to learn. He thought for a few moments and then said, “I know the piece for you.” He produced a book of piano music by Johannes Brahms. Thus began a love affair with Brahms and the piano. Mr. C. made it all the richer through his masterful teaching.

As I learned the Intermezzi Op. 118 No. 1 and 2, I felt my heart expand. I was suddenly aware that there was the possibility of beauty beyond belief in this music. I practiced and practiced. I fell in love. The piece became mine. Even now, 45 years later, I still find its rich harmony and tender melodies so satisfying. This music makes me feel whole. Anyone or anything I have ever loved is held for me in this music. You can hear it here.

Sometimes, when viewing certain pieces of art, reading poetry, or in the remote places of nature where one is surrounded by quiet wonders, the feeling of playing Brahms returns. I find that I can’t just bid the feeling to come; however, it is a gift.

My favorite description of this feeling was written by John Steinbeck in East of Eden, Chapter 13. You can read it here. Maybe if you read his words, you’ll know what I am grateful for today. A kind of glory.

26 minutes left of 3/10/17 in which to write and publish!

My sister’s palindrome birthday: 71 in 17.

Today was so full:

• early morning 5th grade remediation
• meeting with principal
• 4th grade intervention
• 1st grade intervention
• 2nd grade co-teaching writing workshop 🙂
• 4th grade remediation, 2nd group
• lunch
• 1:1 intervention
• 1:1 intervention
• 3rd grade intervention
• interview panel for SPED
• dinner with Sally, my mentor and friend
• birthday celebration with my sisters
• home late

Happy to end my day here writing and reflecting on the richness of life’s experiences. Yes, there are problems to solve and people to please and wounds to heal, but there are also successes to celebrate, friendships to cherish, and family bonds to nourish. I love the quote I read recently, “Life doesn’t have to be perfect to be wonderful.”

I’m writing this post so that sometime in the future I can look back and see how my learning has changed and grown.

I was introduced to the concept of learning progressions some time ago, but recently, I have really started to consider how to apply this knowledge in my work as a reading specialist/interventionist. Learning progressions make so much more sense to me than a standards, benchmarks, indicators description of learning. SBIs, as they are sometimes called, always left feeling like there was a huge “Yes, but…” following. Were they enough to really capture what readers and writers know and do?

The brilliant work of Lucy Calkins and her team at Teacher’s College has created learning progressions in reading and writing which have changed me as a teacher. They have named and explained so many steps of reading and writing processes that help me understand the work of students and my own reading and writing work.

Recently I read some articles about creating learning progressions and began to see that learning progressions can be broken down into ever smaller increments, similar to what I understand about the nature of fractals like broccoli. If you take a head of broccoli and break off a spear, the spear closely resembles the whole head. If you take the spear and break off a floret, the floret resembles the spear. Fractals occur in nature and can be created with mathematical equations that reiterate to create patterns. See some beautiful photos of fractals here.

So I started to think about how to name a step I want students to take next. What are the tiny steps to that next step? What would they look like? Sound like? How would I know when a step was taken?  Could I celebrate the ever smaller increments on the learning progression?

When I consider the students I work with, each is different in their reading strengths and struggles. Even though I may not know exactly where to meet them on the path toward being a lifelong reader or writer, I can try to walk the path for a while with them and see what they can teach me about the terrain they are crossing.

Yesterday I was stuck.

Today I tried to become unstuck.

Today I’m considering how the tendency toward clutter and mess is balanced by the satisfying process of sorting. I find it calming to sort things. Maybe it’s the tangible results that are so rewarding.

The mail piles up–junk, bills, and an occasional card or letter. I sort it and feel better.  The laundry piles up and it must be sorted–lights, whites, darks, and reds (when my athletes all wore red T-shirts for sports). Books get returned to the bookroom and are sorted and filed. The paper involved in teaching reading in 5 grade levels (without enough planning time) creates mountains on my desk. Even if paperless were truly possible, there are endless email messages to sort and process. How fun it is to hit “Delete” over and over in an Inbox!

Today I made progress on clearing out my Outlook Inbox, filing books away, clearing papers off my desk, and re-establishing some order in my workspace. I was surprised how much I got done with a few minutes here and a few minutes there. As I worked, I thought about each of my students, what they needed next, how I could approach a new group starting next week, and conversations that needed to be had with classroom teachers. As my hands worked to manage details and make trash, my mind was slowing down, gratefully becoming unstuck.

stuck

words are stuck

they won’t budge

like the tinnitus in my ears

the hum is monotone

stuck on a pitch

that I can’t

reach

A splitting sinus headache kept me home from work today. When medicine made it almost tolerable,

I made soup.

I made chili.

I organized the fridge.

I thought about the blessing of being home and doing what I used to do when I was a stay-at-home mom. It was restoring to me. Or should I say, a restoring of me? To take a break from work and cook to nourish my family was a deep, core experience for me today.

And, I saw a red-headed woodpecker on my tired, old maple tree!

Pseudonyms used to respect privacy.

The chapel was full so I slipped in  behind the Martins. Zelda was busy keeping their 11-month old baby girl, Lilou, busy. A supply of books, Cheerios, pacifier, and blanket were at the ready. It’s a challenge to bring a baby to a worship service, even when members are accustomed to the sounds of children’s voices.

Lilou had a little ponytail with a gray bow on top of her head like Pebbles from the Flinstones. She was so cute in her Sunday best, white tights, and little Mary Jane shoes. Lilou started to fuss and wasn’t happy in mama’s lap, standing up, sitting down, or on the blanket on the floor. So Sam picked her up and left the chapel for a time.

Zelda started to fidget the way mothers do when they suddenly have free hands. She pulled out her colored pencils and a coloring book for adults and began to fill in the intricate design with yellow, teal, and orange. She chose her colors carefully. Soon Sam returned with Lilou asleep in his arms. “What a lucky little girl,” I thought.

After a time, I glanced over and witnessed a painting-worthy sight. Lilou slept in one arm and Sam gently put his arm around his wife. The expression on his face was whatever you might call a male Madonna (in the classic sense). He gazed over his wife’s shoulder as she added colors to a beautiful design while his baby slept in his arms. It seemed that he sat in amazement at what his wife could create while loving what they had created together. It was an unforgettable look that held every bit of love, wonder, and magic that human eyes can comprehend. I won’t soon forget this moment.

When my parents came to Washington, DC in 1941, there was a small, but strong group of young people who became lifelong friends. As the youngest child, I was “doted” on by these members of what Tom Brokaw called “The Greatest Generation.” It was common in those days for women to form various clubs, complete with a constitution and bylaws. They had their own kind of mission statement and met monthly.

My mother belonged to a club called “Questors.” When it was Questors night, my mom took a shower after dinner, put on her Sunday clothes, including a girdle and a fresh pair of nylons. Sometimes her nylons had the black stripe up the back. She made sure the line was straight.  I remember watching as she manicured her nails, powdered her face, and applied eyebrow pencil, mascara, and lipstick. She looked perfect to me, and she smelled so good. I would stand next to her vanity with the 48″ round mirror, watch, and wonder what it would be like to be a grown lady.

Later, my mom’s club faded and was replaced by a group my parents and their friends called “The Whiz Kids.” As couples, they met once a month on Sunday evenings and discussed books, politics, music, art, travel, history, and often invited guest speakers. They loved learning together and their friendships were deep and lasting. Most of them lived away from their extended families so their friendships filled that need for belonging and closeness.

I watched them meet together and heard their spirited conversations, sometimes serious debates, sometimes loud laughter. I watched them grow older, travel together, and shower each other’s children with wedding gifts and then baby gifts.  They visited one another in the hospital, supported each other as spouses passed on, and were there for each other in every way. They were like my extended family, too.

I’m thinking about them tonight after visiting a friend of mine who is in the hospital. She fell in her home and was on the floor for 4 days before she was discovered. Severely dehydrated and with many other complications, she has been fighting for her life. Our friendship has spanned 40 years and though we’ve never been particularly close, we have a mutual respect, and I care about her. I know from my parents what it means to be a friend, even though I haven’t experienced friendship in the same way they did. But I realize that as we get older, it’s important to be looking out for one another, to not let too much time pass between contacts. We all come to the end of our days at some point. It helps to know that we are not alone.

My youngest daughter will be moving in July.

She’ll live on Hyacinth Road.

I remember the pink, blue, and white hyacinths that bloomed the spring after the fall when my dad planted 100 bulbs ordered directly from Holland. He was so excited. He carefully planned patterns of flowers around the pink dogwood tree so that when the dogwood was in bloom, the bulbs would also burst into color. I remember that spring so vividly. He was so happy and kept asking my sister and I to stand by the flowers and have our picture taken.

I could tell he also felt nostalgic for the time he spent in Holland in 1941, having been reassigned there when it was no longer safe in Munich, Germany. I wish I had asked him what season it was when he moved to Holland. Could he have seen the miles and miles of fields of flowers? The years 1939-1942 were the defining years of his life and laid the foundation not only for his career, but also for his spiritual life. His next assignment was Kentucky. His time in the “hollers” of Kentucky added another layer of richness to his appreciation of people and places.

The pink and blue and white hyacinths were the colors my mother always wore, mostly blue until she was 70. After that, she was more often drawn to pink. My mother always wore the soft, gentle colors that matched her quiet softness. That is not to say she lacked strength. Perhaps she, like the pink and blue hyacinths, had to have a resolute determination when placed next to King Arthur daffodils and scarlet tulips.

The fragrance of hyacinths shouts spring.

I can almost smell them now.