I’ve succumbed.  I’m grumpy.  It’s supposed to snow tomorrow and they already cancelled school. I only saw students once last week, and now it will be only once this week.  I never thought I would not want a snow day.  After all, snow days are days to read in the morning, to stare out the window, and to make good food.  But tonight, it feels like another snow day is a sabotage of learning.

My grumpiness wasn’t helped when I stopped at the store after teaching my evening class. Long lines. Rude people. Cold rain. I got drenched as I loaded the groceries in the car. There was lots of honking in the parking lot. Why, I’m not sure. I was just trying to get home, be warm, and have enough to eat. Basic needs, right?

I called my husband to come help me bring the groceries in.  It was raining harder, and he was more concerned about my parking job than helping.  After trying to follow his hand signals three times, I gave up and told him to park the car himself. He laughed and brought in the groceries.  I admitted to being grumpy.  He kindly put my bowl of stew in the microwave.

It’s interesting how writing this down reveals how unproductive grumpy can be.  I’m smiling now as I think about the luxury of reading in the morning.

This afternoon, while running on the treadmill, I happened to look up just as a commercial was finishing on the TV screen. Every now and then, even a commercial can be inspiring. It was an ad for life insurance. The slogan read, “Life is knowing what you live for.” That gave me a lot to think about as I pounded out the last half mile.

If life is knowing what you live for,

Then I live for the complicated, messy love of family.

I live for messages from my children.

Phone, texts, emails, cards, memories of laughter.

Especially snap chats.

I live for “I love you, Grandma.”

If life is knowing what you live for,

Then I live for Bach, Beethoven, Brahms, Chopin, and Rachmaninoff.

In any order, day or night.

I live for sister time.

I live for learning new words and word origins.

I live to learn about new discoveries in science.

Especially brain science.  Or the universe.

I live for wildlife sightings and natural surprises.

I live for poems, memoirs, and Chapter 13 of East of Eden.

I live for Stephen who didn’t get to live past 22.

I live for my parent’s hands which blessed me.

If life is knowing what you live for,

I’m pretty sure I know.

As the youngest child in my family, my experiences were different from my older siblings. This included the fact that I went to public school Kindergarten. My sister had gone to Naomi Thomas’ Kindergarten, held in the basement of her Falls Church, VA home. Naomi Thomas was a master teacher, mostly due to her firm, soft-spoken ways and her love of children. An oft-repeated quote from Naomi (I heard it from my mother many times.) was, “The happy child knows his limits.” Another way of saying boundaries help children feel safe, I guess. My sister remembers going there and falling in love with Allen Burt Christensen, as only kindergarteners can do.

Looking back, I’m pretty sure I was conflicted about Kindergarten. On the one hand, it meant I got to come home on the school bus with all the big kids in the neighborhood. I would get to go to Tuckahoe Elementary School, a school held in high esteem in the community, at least that was the impression my family gave me. Tuckahoe had an awesome playground. But it meant that I didn’t get to go to Naomi Thomas’ kindergarten. I had always thought I would get to go to Naomi’s. Once Kindergarten was offered in the public school, Naomi closed her little school. That must have been a sad day.

Another reason I was conflicted about Kindergarten was that my best friend, Richie, who lived across the street, was not allowed to be in my class. Whether it was the parents or the teachers who decided we were too dependent on each other, I’m not sure, but it was decided that we needed to be in separate classes. We had played together everyday of our lives since we were able to toddle. So Richie went in the morning and I went in the afternoon. I didn’t understand that. There were a lot of things I didn’t understand about Kindergarten. Such as the time Mrs. Huff had us sitting in a circle and a classmate yawned. So I yawned, but I got in trouble for it. Mrs. Huff was beautiful and I really didn’t want to disappoint her, but I didn’t understand why a yawn offended her so. I think I get it now. Maybe that yawn was just a little dramatic.

I don’t remember much else about Kindergarten, except that we had a May Day celebration and the fifth graders got to dance the Maypole. That’s how we always said it, “dance the Maypole.” It was always beautiful with colored streamers and flowers on top. The students did an intricate dance which ended with them weaving in and out until the whole pole was covered with a braid of colored streamers. Every class did something on the program. I think the Kindergarteners wore big flowers on their heads and danced to Tchaikovsky’s “Waltz of the Flowers.”

A little nostalgia on a Monday night. I wonder if any proofreaders out there noticed that I’m trying to break the two spaces after a period habit. I wonder what others think about that.

My baby girl is having a baby. I feel the parallelism of generations. I had my first baby at 22. She is 22. I was born prematurely (29 weeks) and she born at 29 weeks. When she passed her 29th week with this pregnancy, we both felt a special relief. She calls me often and shows me her growing belly and asks how much it will hurt. I honestly can’t remember the childbirth pain. Other pain through the years has been more indelible. This baby will be my 7th grandchild, but she is the first of my daughters to have a baby. I don’t know why that feels different, but it does. Maggie could be born any day now. I’m so distracted (in a good way).

My one-little-word for this year is remember. As this month of focused “slicing” approached, I found myself scanning memories and wondering which ones will come out in writing this month. I’m never quite sure where my writing will take me, but I remember the growth I felt last year as I worked to write every day in March and am looking forward to more growing this year. I remember the first response I got to my first post last year. I was so excited–it meant so much to me that someone cared to read my words and write back.

As I read Betsy Hubbard’s post the other day where she mentioned that “close reading” is really about what you believe in (Chris Lehman), the cymbals crashed, the drums boomed, and the trumpets blared as I experienced a clarifying moment. It is our beliefs that make us stop and notice a turn of phrase, a shift of perspective, or an affirmation of our own thoughts and experiences. I think that is why I am participating in this challenge. I’m hungry for the experience of reading others’ words and finding myself in them.

It’s interesting how our dreams can sometimes seem so foreign and other times seem so real that we can hardly believe we were dreaming. Last night, after a long time of trying to wind down and before falling asleep, I visualized my dad. I looked hard into the darkness to see his wise gray-blue eyes, his gentle smile, and strong chin. I had not really pictured him in quite some time, not wanting to feel the loss again. But slowly, his face became clear. I could see his face, and hear his musical voice. I remembered sermons he gave in Church, not a clergyman, but a believer. Then his expressions, so loved and familiar, came to my vision. It was only a moment, but it fed my soul and my eyes filled with those happy-sad tears.

The dream that followed sometime in the night was so real. My dad, my mom, and myself were riding horses on what used to be Storm Farm (now Tysons Corner). It was beautiful. The hills were green and the horses were well-trained for timid riders. In my dream, my parents were elderly, but wanted to take a ride one more time. We followed a trail through the woods and came out on top of a hill. The sun was shining and I was so proud of them. It seemed as if the frailty of old age and illness were momentarily suspended so that we could share that time together. That’s all I remember of the dream.

On the way to work, I reflected on that dream and remembered another time 44 years ago, when my parents took me on a road trip west. We were going to the graduations of my brother and my sister and on the way we went to many national parks. One favorite area was the north rim of the Grand Canyon where the Kaibab Forest stretches for miles. We actually did ride horses there together and I remember the exhilarating feeling of riding through the crisp morning air, the scent of pine everywhere. My dad looked so proud and handsome on his horse. My mother totally surprised me by agreeing to get on a horse. I never would have thought it possible. There we were – the three of us on beautiful animals. I never felt so free.

So, I’ve been avoiding writing since my trip to Wales, feeling utterly inadequate to express the beauty I saw, the feelings I had, and the things I learned. So for now, I’m going to set aside all that inadequacy and merely begin again.

I’ve had to begin again over and over in my life. So far, feelings of inadequacy might paralyze me for a time, but somehow I keep fighting back. I have experienced it so many times, you’d think I’d finally learn that I’m not inadequate, but I’m not there yet.

I’m so appreciative of the community of educators (many whom I haven’t even met) who lift me up and inspire me daily as I read your blogs and tweets. I was reminded today by a teacher-friend that what we do is not about the content of what we teach, but about the lives of children we have in our care. It is not so much about what they are learning, but about how what they are learning is influencing what they can become. Is what I’m teaching today framed by love, humanity, and patience? Is framed the right word? Maybe it should be, Is what I’m teaching today nourished by love, humanity, and patience? Am I bringing hope into my work?

As I taught my minilesson today on thinking about people I know for my writing ideas, I was reminded that writing is hard, but so satisfying. I wrote a little piece in front of the students about my grandson, Josh. I was challenged to convey Josh’s particular sense of humor, his tenacity, and his almost 8-year old strength. It felt so good to practice–it’s time to write again.

Ever since I returned from Wales, I have been avoiding writing. Feeling utterly inadequate to express or describe the beauty I saw, the spirit of the people I met, and the sense of homeland, I just haven’t written. I’ve thought about trying to write to convey those experiences hundreds of times over the last few months. Paralyzed.

I decided tonight to put all that inadequacy aside and simply begin again. Perhaps at another time and place I will be able to write about Wales, but not yet.

It is amazing to me how feelings of inadequacy can keep me from doing things I enjoy and how often I have to fight back to do the thing I enjoy. (In this case, write.) I’m sure I’m not the only human being who struggles with this, but it is a fierce struggle. Beginning again and again and again seems to be what I do.

That makes me think about my students. How many of them are feeling inadequate and what could I do to help them want to keep trying? I realized writing this that it sounds funny to want to be “adequate.” So why is “inadequate” so powerful a label? If I work so hard to not be “inadequate,” will all I find is being “adequate?”

So I had to go to the dictionary to check word origin: Maybe adequate isn’t so weak after all. I like the idea of being equal to what is required. I’ll keep working on that.

Word Origin and History for adequate Expand
adj.
1610s, from Latin adaequatus “equalized,” past participle of adaequare “to make equal to,” from ad- “to” (see ad- ) + aequare “make level,” from aequus (see equal ). The sense is of being “equal to what is required.”

A week from now I’ll be in Wales.  I can hardly believe it.  My sisters and I are going to see the birthplace of our grandfather whom we never knew.  It may seem hard to believe, but as the youngest child of a youngest child, my grandfather was born in 1864.  He died at age 90 just before I was born.  He came to the United States at age 12 with only his sister.  His parents stayed behind in Wales until many years later.  He was a coal miner all his life.  It’s hard to imagine the changes he experienced in his lifetime, 1864-1955.  My sister has been making inquiries with genealogists in the family who are putting us in touch with cousins. The pull of family is very strong, and we feel the promise of a certain sense of home, of roots, of being grounded in the place we came from.  

As a knitter, I can hardly wait to see the lambs frolicking in green, green valleys.  As a musician, I can hardly wait to hear a Welsh choir.  As a nature-lover, I can hardly wait to walk the Brecon Beacons, see the spring flowers, and hear the birds.  As a granddaughter, I can hardly wait to have a real picture of the place where my grandfather was born.  

To be with my sisters for more than a few hours will also be a delightful treat.  Siblings are usually life’s longest relationships.  I’m so grateful for mine.

To the Grass

Under weight of snow,

Send down roots.

After winter’s dark night,

Awake and stretch toward warmth and light.

With your fellows,

stand thick and close.

When nibbling grubs tickle

And ants race through your feet—

When horses,

Cows, sheep, or lawnmowers

Shear your lush green-ness,

Rejoice that you give life

And cool my

Tired feet.

by Marilyn, April 1, 2014