I’m leaning on today’s “Be Inspired” message:
Consider writing a slice of life story about someone who did something heroic and compassionate for you.

My hero has always been my dad. I have thought about writing this story before. Right now, it seems like the story I want to tell. I was five.

Our little house had a big hill behind it with gigantic tulip poplar trees. The swing set faced the trees just as the hill dropped off to the creek-bed below. I don’t know how long the swing set had been there. It was old, but I loved it. Even though the legs were “anchored” by cement, the swing set “bumped” when we swung high. Sometimes we could see the whole leg lift out of the ground and we would squeal with excitement.

One Saturday afternoon, my dad decided that the old concrete needed to come out so he could pour fresh cement to make the legs more secure. He worked with a sledge hammer and shovel for what seemed like hours. The pounding of the sledge hammer and the sharp sound of his shovel on concrete filled the backyard. I went out to watch him. Just being near my dad was pretty much the best thing I knew.

Somehow, I got in the way just as he freed a large, heavy slab of concrete. He strained to manage its size and weight. He couldn’t. The slab started to roll down the hill but stopped abruptly against my five-year old leg, scraping it badly.

I ran crying into the house.

What has stayed in my memory is what happened that evening. I was bathed and tucked into bed.  My Dad came in and sat on my bed which was not a common practice in our family. (At bedtime, the kids just went to bed.) But this night, there he was–so concerned about my leg. He gently assured me over and over that he would never hurt me on purpose. He loved me. I knew that more than I have ever known anything.

Elena reads with me every day at 12:00. She has just finished her snack, adjusted her cat-ear headband, picked up her bag of books, and skipped out of the classroom. Reading with Elena has reminded me of childhood joys and confusions. She is effervescent in her enthusiasm for rainbows, unicorns, and kittens. Everyday her outfits are planned even in their chaotic color schemes. One day, we read a book about the life cycle of the frog. She looked up with a bright smile and announced, “Tomorrow I’m going to wear my life cycle butterfly shirt. I have one!” I loved the fashion/book connections she makes.

Uncovering the factors inhibiting Elena’s reading progress continues to be a fascinating challenge. When I measured her reading rate at 27 wpm (2nd grade), I knew there was a mystery to solve. I watched her eyes and observed that she read every sentence silently before she read it aloud. I asked her if that was what she was doing. She said that she did that so she wouldn’t make mistakes. I assured her that she could keep reading aloud without reading silently first, and that she could trust me to help her if she came to a tricky spot.

I was reminded of childhood confusions when Elena reacted to the phrase, “the farmer planted a garden.” She looked up and said, “What? Everyone knows you plant SEEDS in a garden. You can’t plant a GARDEN in a garden!” Her exuberance filled the room. Sparkly eyes, dimpled cheeks, and bright smile were tough to argue with.

I suddenly remembered having a complete misunderstanding of the word “radar” as a six-year old. As hard as I tried, I couldn’t comprehend the phrase, “Speed checked by radar.” Who was radar? Was radar that huge machine I saw on the horizon? (Many years later, I learned that was a crane.) Would it pick up cars like the magnets in the cartoons I watched?

I was humbled and reminded that confusions are part of learning and need to be treated clearly and gently.

Many of us in the Mid-Atlantic are experiencing fierce winds today. It’s the first time in my memory that school was canceled due to wind. The neighbors’ trash cans are scattered across the road, and I can already hear the sound of wood chippers around the corner. There is an unusual, eerie undercurrent that can be heard as gusts gather speed. This is a time for stretching my brain with a metaphor challenge! I’d love to read/hear your metaphors for wind, too!

• The wind is a percussionist banging pots and pans on my roof.
• The wind is a tidal wave colliding with the trees.
• The wind is a bullet train heading this way.
• The wind is a lion tamer cracking his whip.
• The wind is a trainer stretching trees muscles.
• The wind is breath of giants.
• The wind is an invisible ocean.

The wind is a . . .
What is your metaphor for wind?

Ten things I hope to do by writing every day in March:

• renew “digital” friendships
• write a poem or two
• slow the pace of life enough to access my stories
• respond to others’ writing in helpful ways
• try a new format
• work on craft
• notice the little things
• find joy in the moments shared
• love having written
• quiet the inner censor

I’m reading a book I stumbled upon somewhere (maybe here!) called If You Want to Write by Brenda Ueland. It was written in 1938–so full of inspiration! Here’s a favorite quote so far:

I tell you all these things to show you that working is not grinding but a wonderful thing to do; that creative power is in all of you if you give it just a little time; if you believe in it a little bit and watch it come quietly into you; if you do not keep it out by always hurrying and feeling guilty in those times when you should be lazy and happy. Of if you do not keep the creative power away by telling yourself that worst of lies–that you haven’t any. (Ueland, p. 41)

What is it about this child’s face

looking up at the sky

in search of a bird

that captivates

my heart

and

makes me

believe in wonder

and imagine that all is

all right in this crazy world?

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.