pelicansandprose

I’m excited to be heading to New York for the Teachers College Reading and Writing Project Saturday Reunion. I was amazed when I saw the number and quality of the workshops offered tomorrow. I don’t know how I’ll decide where to put my learning! But I’m happy I have the opportunity.

My favorite parts are hearing Lucy Calkins, sharing new learning with friends and strangers, walking in the city, feeling stronger than usual, and working on my weak navigation skills. I love watching Upper West Side families with their young children and dogs. I’ve never lived in a city, so imagining life there is fun.

My least favorite parts are getting lost, and the unsavory smells of cities.

My favorite list is a lot longer than my least favorite list, so that’s a good thing.

This time, I’m treating myself to the Lincoln Center to see the Paul Taylor Dance Company. I’m looking forward to some “rapture and bliss.”

My daughter greeted me tonight by saying, “I guess you haven’t seen the news, yet.” I said I hadn’t, fearing another shooting or natural disaster. What she said next was perhaps even harder to hear. She told me of the President’s recommendations for the budget in which he suggest severe cuts for programs that serve women and children, the poor, the arts, education, libraries, and the environment, while substantially increasing military spending. The list was startling and disturbing.

When it comes to politics, I have spent a good bit of my life with my head in the sand like an ostrich. I won’t go into the reasons why, but suffice it to say, I am being pushed to change. While I may not have confidence in my ability to discuss politics and history, I do have confidence in my belief that a society which does not care for its poor and needy is in great danger. Our humanity depends on our exercise of lovingkindness. A society that does not support the arts, education, and forums for discussion will not create a citizenry capable of sustaining it.

I could work myself up into a tirade at this moment. Instead, I’ll remind myself and my readers of these pieces of wisdom from George Washington Carver and Mother Teresa:

I feel bad

for the pink blossoms

browned by

freezing temperatures.

I imagine

even non-fruit bearing trees

grieve the loss.

Mrs. Smith was a formidable woman from Texas. She was slim and about 6 feet tall. Her voice was loud, and she ran a tight ship. Today we might say she had “helmit hair,” but in the 1960s it didn’t seem too unusual.

For most of the year, I was a good girl. I did my work. I played nicely. I stayed out of trouble. Until the day I “followed the leader” in the girls’ bathroom and participated in locking all the doors and crawling out underneath.

A classmate happened to come in the bathroom just as I crawled out of the last stall. She saw an opportunity and took it. “Ohhhhh,” she gasped as she hurried out of the bathroom (without using it). I can still see the skirt of her plaid dress swishing around the corner. When I walked into the classroom, she had a triumphant look on her face.

Mrs. Smith was quietly steaming. Her punishment for me was to write 25 times, “I will not go into the girls’ bathroom and lock the doors so others cannot use it.” She purposely made it 2 lines, she said, so that I would have to think about the whole statement every time I wrote it rather than doing it the quick way. It was customary then to get such tasks done more quickly by writing “I” down the page 25 times; then “will;” then “not,” and so forth. However, the clincher was when she said, “Bring this back tomorrow with your parent’s signature.”

That night I excused myself after dinner and went to my room to complete my punishment. Contritely, I wrote in my most careful cursive with a newly acquired blue cartridge pen. Maybe if it looked good, my mom wouldn’t read what it said. I could hope.

The next morning I got ready for school with butterflies in my stomach. I waited until the last minute. As I walked out the door, I said, “Mom, you need to sign this.” My dad was already gone to work (thankfully). She glanced quickly and signed it without saying a word. I walked to school that bright, spring morning feeling like I had disgraced my family. (I might have been just a little bit sensitive.)

It was many years before I learned how my parents laughed and laughed at the way their good little girl chose to be naughty.

In 3rd grade Mrs. Magarity, Principal, told my mother that she put me in Mrs. Godard’s class as one of 8 girls to “help” with the 15 boys also in the class. The boys were tough. It was a tough year. I remember being teased mercilessly. It seemed that no matter what I said or did, I became a target for their jokes. Most days I went home and cried. When my mother was exasperated with my tears, my sister would try to help me cope.

Back then girls were not allowed to wear pants to school. It was dresses only. The boys loved to find ways to flick our skirts up, pull our pigtails or ponytails, and experimented with various crude hand gestures. I knew nothing about what those words and gestures meant. My naive innocence just seemed to encourage them. Recess was miserable.

One day this group of boys had broken a mirror. They put pieces of mirror on their shoes anchored between the crisscrosses of their shoelaces. The object was to get close enough to a girl to be able to see up her dress with the mirror. All day was spent dodging their quick feet in terror of a successful attempt and having my underwear be the topic of more teasing.

I remember that some days Mrs Godard would get so angry her neck would turn red. Sometimes the principal would come in and threaten punishment. She was a formidable woman to us. We often had class punishment of putting our heads down for an extended time. It was confusing for me because I was never sure whether I should feel bad or not.

Yet, Mrs. Godard holds a special place in my life. She was tough, but kind to me. Once she invited me and my family to come hear her sing at her church in Arlington. It was not far from where we lived, so my parents took me that Sunday evening. I don’t remember what she sang, but I remember the warm spring air with the scent of lilacs and felt special to be invited. My mom and I dressed up and my dad wore his best suit. I can still see her standing proudly in that colonial chapel lit by chandeliers. Her voice was strong and filled the chapel.

I cried in High School when I learned she had died of cancer.

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.