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!

Wow, writing March 27 makes me realize that our SOL challenge is nearing the end for this year. As I reflect on this year’s work I know I have pushed myself on some days, been awed by others’ writing many days, and grateful for the time carved out to write every day. Thank you to all who make this experience possible.

Today, Easter Sunday, for me and my family, was a special day. It was my first time in about 8 years leading the choir for the Easter service. Our church musicians are not paid, so many years  I have played the piano or the organ and other years, I’ve had the opportunity to lead the choir.

Leading a choir is one of the great experiences of life. The singers are the important ones–but the cool thing is they do what your hands and face tell them to do. Without talking, I can get them to sing louder, sing softer, emphasize a word or phrase, slow down, or speed up. All for creating something beautiful that might move listeners to feel something they might not otherwise feel. It’s a community experience, but also a very personal one.

As I look into each singers’ eyes, I see trust, intention, and sometimes love. They are trusting me to shape the group to deliver the message intended by the composer. It’s a powerful experience that has helped me grow as a musician and as a teacher. I have learned that leading music is not about me, but it’s about helping others communicate what is in their hearts. When I do my best teaching, it is the same. I’m helping my students find what is in their minds and hearts that they want to say to the world. That’s the best.

Work worn

Car weary

traffic tired

made more

than worthwhile–

by chubby arms

outstretched,

toddling steps,

toward

Grandma.

It’s a week of birthdays in our family. My son, his wife, a grandson, and a granddaughter all have birthdays this week. I have been filled with so many emotions. Feelings of time passing too quickly, nostalgia for years passed by, and wishing I could be in more than one place to celebrate with each of them.

Tonight we are with Maggie, celebrating her first birthday. A tradition coming from her daddy’s side of the family was adorable, but messy! In his family, a small cake was made for the one-year old. It was called a “smash cake.” The baby is put in her highchair with only her diaper on and allowed to “explore” the cake. It was hilarious to watch Maggie put a finger in, taste it, and then go face first into the cake. She had no fear. With frosting all over her face, she was in heaven.

I was reminded of another first birthday party of my nephew’s son. His parents had been very fastidious in his care, frequently washing hands and offering only healthy foods. On his first birthday, he was offered a cupcake. He’d never had sugar or anything like cake. It terrified him and he shrieked! He would have no part of cake or celebration. Children are so different and that’s the joy that keeps life interesting.

In the family I grew up in, birthday dinners were steeped in a tradition that went generations back. My great grandmother put her garden in as early as possible so that she would have peas by the 4th of July around the time of her birthday. It was important to her that she be able to offer her family and guests a few fresh peas. For her birthday she would serve “chicken and a few peas.” So that tradition passed down in my father’s family. Even when they didn’t have much during the Depression, a birthday dinner would be “chicken and a few peas.” Then, that’s what my mother served us. Most of the time, it would be a roaster with stuffing, and a few peas. When I was very young, that meant canned peas (Yuck.) But when I got older, my mom discovered frozen peas, and then petite peas which became my favorite until I discovered sugar snap peas.

Such small things like a “smash cake” or “chicken and a few peas” bind generations and tie us together. I’m glad that I know that my great grandmother took pride in her garden. And now, I’m happy that “smash cake” has become part of our family birthday celebrations.

I could write about the great morning I had working with a friend in my school book room, but then you’d know that I worked over Spring Break.

I could write about Maggie’s first birthday today, but actually I won’t see her until tomorrow.

I could write about the happy lunch I had with my sister, but then I’d also have to tell you that my school computer was stolen out of my car while we enjoyed our conversation.

I could write about how nervous I was to go home and tell my husband about my computer, but I was actually blessed that he has mellowed with age. He gave a mild lecture, without the shouting of earlier years.

I could write about how deafening the voice in my head is that tells me what an idiot I am, but then I try to remember that whoever that voice is, lies. At least I hope it’s a liar. I am more than the mistakes I make.

Last night after dinner, Tristan looked out the window.

“Hi, Moon,” he said in his 2 1/2 year old soprano.

He waited expectantly for an answer–

Such sweetness in his innocent face.

The moon was nearly full.

It’s full tonight.

“Hi, Moon,” I repeated.

                                                                              Photo by Ralph A. Johnson, 3/22/16.