Photo by Ralph Johnson, Shenandoah National Park, 8/11/16.

We sat on the back porch in weathered-gray Adirondack chairs which tilted back

but not quite enough.

With cricked necks we stared up at the sky.

Experimenting with focused gaze and then with soft eyes,

We took in Cassiopeia’s night sky.

In late, still darkness,

The sounds of summer’s sultriness drummed in our ears–

Cicadas, frogs, crickets, locusts–the chorus that calls for fall.

We held hands and waited for the promised Perseid meteors

As children might watch for lightning bugs.

“There’s one!”

“Did you see that?”

Spears of light etched through the stars urged us to stay for just one more.

“There’s one!”

Just one more. . .

Flash of wonder.

Sunday morning. I had planned to get up early and finish off the chores that missed attention the day before, but I just had a bit of The History of Love by Nicole Krauss left to read. It had been a while since a book so moved me and catapulted me into walking in another’s shoes. I felt the immaculate beauty of her language. The joys and sorrows showing the kind and cruel ways human lives intersect or fail to connect. When I finished, I wanted to start it over again, not sure that I got it all the first time. I wanted to drink it to the last drop.

In The History of Love, Leo Gursky wonders if his life has mattered, if the love he has carried in his heart for a woman he fell in love with when he was 10 would make a difference to anyone. All the could-have-beens, if-onlys, and what-ifs, fill his thoughts at the end of his life. This is a story of reflection on outcomes of important decisions. Leo often expresses a thought followed by “And yet.”  Poignant pauses to reconsider what might yet be ahead.

My arm was parallel to my husband’s; shoulder-to-shoulder, he slept while I read. I heard him breathe in and out. I turned the pages quietly, trying not to wake him. I wondered if he could feel my heart swell as I read Leo Gursky’s story. Would he know that I was changed by this book? Distracted for a moment, lyrics from Fiddler on the Roof ran through my mind:

“Do you love me?”

“Do I what?”

“Do you love me?” …

“Twenty-five years, my bed is his. If that’s not love, what is?”

For me, it’s forty-one years. That’s 2,132 Sunday mornings. The history of love. Sometimes unbearably beautiful and sometimes unbearably sad. And yet.

Sunday morning. There was a time when that meant finding Sunday shoes, ironed dresses, hair ribbons, and shirts and ties that matched. Taking the roast out of the fridge, peeling potatoes and carrots for the requisite Sunday dinner, perhaps regretting that a cake or pie didn’t get made for dessert.

“Mom, these shoes are too small.”

“You can’t tell me that on Sunday morning. I can’t do anything about it now. Tell me Saturday, please.” But inside I knew I should have been the one to think of shoes on Saturday.

“Do I have all my music? Okay, let’s go.” Seven of us in the car on the way to church, racing the clock to be only 5 minutes late.

Sunday morning. My dad’s face was shiny clean from his early shower, smooth shave, and the pungent scent of Mennen’s aftershave.  His shirt was crisp, his tie chosen carefully to go with his suit. Mr. Glazier’s Dry Cleaners carefully folded and made his shirts like new each week.  My father’s shirts were never on hangers—they were stacked neatly in his dresser drawer. Each Sunday he would select the best (newest) shirt from the stack and unwrap it. I could never understand why my father chose Mr. Glazier as his dry cleaner since his shop reeked of an omnipresent cigar in his hand or mouth. We always said we were going to Mr. Glazier’s, not to “pick up the dry cleaning.” It was personal, a friendship of sorts, I guess. Somehow by Sunday morning there was no trace of cigar smell anywhere.

Coming down to the kitchen, dressed in my best clothes and shoes, I would be greeted by my mom or dad. Mom often just stood at the kitchen window, staring out at our beautiful backyard. There might be a bunny to see or Mr. Northern’s chickens. Always a bluejay or cardinal. My parents always ate Danish on Sunday mornings purchased at the Westover Bakery. My mom cooked only once on Sundays. On the clean counter was a pie made on Saturday and the little bit of extra crust baked separately in a little Pyrex custard bowl, just for me. The blue enamel roasting pan had either a beef roast or a stuffed chicken, ready to go in the oven. Orange Jello with mandarin oranges and slices of banana waited in the fridge. If she had time, there would also be fresh dough for rolls rising in the white Sunbeam mixer bowl. Everything prepared and ready.

Sunday mornings tell my history of love.

July is a difficult month. It seems it shouldn’t be; after all, it’s summer. But I know many women (including my daughter) who lost their husbands in July. It seems inconsistent that a month when flowers are in full bloom women I love have worn black and mourned. As Julys come and go, their grief is less immediate but always present like the threat of afternoon thunderstorms.

July is also challenging for me because of my struggle with unstructured time. There are so many things to enjoy and learn. So many projects from the school year put off until summer. So many books, blogs, and tweets to read! So many decisions! Should I read, garden, nap, practice piano, knit, clean (yikes), or write? Ah, the problem is that there is no “should.” There is time and there is choice. July is my month-long life workshop, a macrocosm, perhaps, of a reading/writing workshop.

I am learning that in the journey to become what I am meant to be it is more important to experience the present moment than spend so much time worrying what I “should” do next. There are many “right” things to do.  It’s interesting that as I write this, I realize that agonizing over the “right” word or the best way to express my thoughts and feelings is much the same struggle. In the end, there are many choices and many ways to not only become a better writer, but a better human being. The important thing is to keep trying– making choices to grow.

Especially in July.

While I am totally jealous that many of you are already on summer break, I am happy tonight to say that we avoided state sanctions by bringing up our test scores in reading and math.  However, worry-wart that I am, I’m still concerned that we have improved our test-taking, but what about reading engagement?

So for the students identified to receive 6 free books of their own choosing for our summer reading intervention, my concern is, Will they be motivated, engaged, “lost in a book” readers? Or will video games, media, and other distractions steal their reading time?

If you haven’t seen Kate di Camillo’s youtube videos on summer reading, you might enjoy watching them (Search Kate di Camillo summer reading).  Dav Pilkey also has some summer reading videos that I’m going to share with my students. He talks about how reading gives you superpowers. He makes the point that when you are watching TV or videos or playing video games, you are really just watching someone else’s creativity at work. (Which is fine.) But when you read, your own creativity is challenged to come alive. This past weekend, I totally got lost in a book and spent Friday night and 2/3 of Saturday fully engrossed.  It was so fun – I want that for my students.

I love Dav Pilkey’s last sentence: “Imagination is the greatest superpower of all.”

I enjoyed reading posts this weekend from #DigiLit Sunday on the theme of Refresh which helped me feel not so alone in my state of end-of-year depletion. I, too, have a huge stack of reading by my bed and great hopes of enjoying both professional and children’s literature this summer.

An ABCEDARIAN List of Refreshments

A – Allow myself to be quiet and reflect.

B – Be ready to try something new.

C – Cultivate in the garden.

D – Dig in to learning.

E – Ease and Effort – find the balance.

F – Forgive and forget past hurts.

G – Give to others.

H – Have specific goals to read and write.

I – Integrate body, mind, and spirit.

J – Just be.

K – Knit and knit some more.

L – Log my reading. Also Let be; let go; let in.

M – Make nourishing food and eat it.

N – Nature walks.

O – Open windows and doors.

P – Practice, practice, practice and play with grandchildren.

Q – Quietly listen.

R – Reserve judgment.

S – Sing

T – Take time to write.

U – Utilize technology tools.

W – Wonder

Y – Yoga practice

Z – The Zoo is always good for refreshment:)

Last week many jurisdictions celebrated teachers. Many flowers, chocolates, donuts, and sweet sentiments were generously given. I’m not ungrateful, but when I received a certain bookmark, I took pause. The quote on the bookmark said, “It takes a big heart to shape little minds.” While I appreciate possibly being seen as big-hearted, I reacted strongly to the idea that my work is to “shape little minds.”

Shape (v.). Is that what I do? When I think of shape (v.), the image of clay on a potter’s wheel comes to mind. While the clay is wet, the possibilities for the potter are limitless; but what choices are available to the pot? Once shaped, dried, or fired, I could glaze it, paint it, fill it, display it, or even break it. But it would essentially remain the same. That doesn’t sound like what I do. Teaching isn’t what I do to children.

Little minds. No. Even the most “challenged” child I have ever taught or known has had so much to teach me about learning. Little bodies, maybe, but not little minds. The joy of teaching is the huge capacity of the human mind to make meaning. The joy for me is that every mind is different. The capacity to grow and learn is often strongest in our youngest students. Opening doors, providing tools, and offering encouragement are the things children and I do for each other.

It does take a big heart to show up every day, to not give up when it is hard, and to hold on to values and beliefs that are sometimes not supported in our current school reality. I consider it a privilege to have my life’s work revolve around children. Our interactions continually transform us. Sometimes I am teacher. More often, I am learner.

Happy would-be 96th birthday to my mama. I had to say that first. She has been very present in my thoughts and feelings today. This was a day she would have loved, warm and bright with sunshine and azaleas in bloom.

My mind is still very full from attending the 2nd Annual Digital and Media Literacy Institute at TCRWP in New York. What a privilege to learn among such great thinkers, effective teachers, and caring people. Every time I have been to an Institute, I have been so moved by the quality of the people I meet there, and the extraordinary human beings who teach me. I’m still processing all that I learned!

Being someone who can get lost VERY easily, I had some personal victories while in New York. I safely found the famous knitting store, Purl Soho, and happily spent too much money on yarn. (Knitters will understand.) Then, my friend, Sally, and I navigated to the Conservatory Gardens on the East Side of Central Park and enjoyed more varieties of tulips than I have ever seen before. It made me remember the feeling of being “younger than springtime.”

The last night I was there, I decided to go to Carnegie Hall.  I had never been before and wanted to have the experience. It turned out that I was able to get the last ticket with an unobstructed view for the debut American performance of a Korean composer-pianist, Yiruma. I was one of the few Caucasian faces in a sea of Koreans. It was joyful. Yiruma is famous in Korea for music he has written for TV dramas and movies. His music is contemplative, serene, and beautifully structured. He had his friend and colleague, a cellist Youngmin Kim, play with him. Cello made what was already beautiful, sublime.

But the highlight of the evening was when he invited the audience to view a video clip of a young man named Darius who was born with only 4 fingers, 3 on one hand and 1 on the other. He was also born without the joints and bones below his knees and walked with the assistance of prosthetics. Darius is a teenager now, but when he was very young he showed interest in the piano and taught himself to play. The news clip showed him playing the first piece he learned in entirety which happened to be a piece by Yiruma. It was so incredible to watch and listen. Yiruma proceeded to invite Darius onto the stage. He walked with difficulty, but with joy, wearing a white tuxedo jacket. Yiruma and Darius had rehearsed once together. They sat down and played Darius’ piece and Yiruma accompanied him with his own improvisations. Can you imagine being 15 or 38 and having your debut at Carnegie Hall?

The Korean woman next to me told me that Yiruma means, “in you, hope becomes true.” I have since seen other translations of the name, but I will remember hers after seeing Darius and Yiruma perform in a way that could only bring hope and light into the world.

It was such a little thing, but I knew it could be such big thing. I was at my Kiss-and-Ride duty early on a very rainy day last week. Rain wasn’t expected until early afternoon. Many were caught unprepared and without jackets and umbrellas. My umbrella, in fact, was a ratty, half-broken, tan umbrella that had been my mother’s years ago. It’s home was on the floor of the back seat of my car. Who knows how many times it had been stepped on, or had groceries or books piled on top of it? My newer, more stylish umbrella was in my classroom, but I had no time to get it.

As the children piled out of their cars, some rushed by me. Others said, “Good morning,” as usual.  Kindergartners with ladybug umbrellas, and batman umbrellas, rushed along. One little girl complained that she had to use her brother’s umbrella. It had Ninja turtles on it. There were the tougher kids who acted like they didn’t care about the rain while others protested loudly.

Next, Connor (4th) and his sister, Destiny (K), gingerly got out of their car. They carefully stepped across the stream of water and mud flowing down the gutter. Neither had a jacket or an umbrella. Without a word, Connor put his arm up over his little sister’s head to protect her from the rain. He walked the entire way into the building with his arm over her head. Did she know it was there? Someday, Destiny might remember the day her brother thought more of her than he did of himself and deeper love will fill her heart.

March on. Steady march. Relentless march. March into the unknown.

March is not done softly. March is rhythmic, consistent, and intentional. March can be fierce.

March as movement; March as seasonal; March as lambs and lions.

I think that this year March has been all of these things for me. It has tested my stamina, my will, my desire, and my skill. I have learned to keep marching even when it is hard. I have gratefully been reminded that I don’t march alone.

I am grateful for all those who make the SOL Challenge possible, including every participant! This is my 3rd March of marching–but sometimes, I’ve danced.

The wind started picking up in the afternoon, whistling through the doors and windows. The leafless trees swayed side to side. My hair blinded my eyes as it whipped around my face. I hadn’t expected such ferocity, even though March is famous for wind. At least it wasn’t bitter cold.

I parked the car and quickly ran in to Chipotle to grab some dinner to bring home after working longer than I anticipated. As I was having my burrito bowls prepared, the lights dimmed. Then it went completely dark. The manager got on her cell phone, workers frantically found flashlights, and customers looked to one another to try to figure out what would be next. There was panic in the air–would they want cash only? How to record transactions without a computerized system?

Windfall. Our dinner was free!