With Eyes Wanting to Shut, This Friday Post is as Sincere as I Can Type. Brown School Mission. That is What All Schools Should Aim For.

This is likely to be a short post. I caught up on Big Brother,  have worked with colleagues across the nation on numerous big projects, and right now I have hope that we're going to be alright.

Truth is I'm exhausted, and I have a Friday full of important meetings. I am hoping they all will head to what is best for use all, albeit mind-chaotic.

We do have cool temperatures for sleeping and an October weekend before us. The reckoning seasons, and more faith ahead than I've had in a great while.

And I'm channeling all the Brown School people that invested so much in me: teachers, students, and administrators. We've always been the answer, but we have work to do. 

The United States of Brown School -  I believe in that. Always have. Democracy at its best, even with the crazy we endured. 

BEARs. The mission and values. They mean something. 

Time Keeps On Slipping, Slipping, Into the Future...Unless You Teach. Then Not One of the Clocks Works Correctly in the Building.

I'm not the first to write such a post and I definitely will not be the last. I'm having flashbacks to my K-12 teaching days when kids were always late from a particular math room because the teacher always kept them over the period's time. Of course, she blamed it on clocks, but we had them all synched. We were in good shape, but her mathematical skills never transferred to time-telling. Our faculty grew accustomed that students from a particular math course would always be five-minutes late, no matter how many ways we tried to get the behavior adjusted. 

We just went with it. 

Now, I've been in many high schools where every clock in every room is at a different time. It fascinates me that a building built on factory-efficiency and data-paranoia, never addresses the fact that there are so many times being named throughout the day. We want kids to be responsible, but our clocks are all #@$#$@ up. 

This, however, is not just a K-12 thing.

Exhibit A. Fairfield University. They put digital clocks throughout all the buildings and in all the hallways. Unlike K-12 schools, families invest astronomical amounts of money to give their lovelies and geniuses a chance in the world. All the loans, all the financial aid, and all the savings, however, can not get a school institution to work out the issue of time. This is ironic, however, as we are always telling our students how time is of the essence, and efficiency is success. 

Unless you teach. The entire enterprise seems to make educators look like fools. Not a single clock matches ever, and everyone gets confused, perplexed, and humored by the insanity. Does anybody ever really know what time it is? Does anybody ever really care?

On Wednesdays, I know I finish teaching at 9:15 p.m. - and with student questions and inquiries, I'm usually out of the room by 9:30. I then go to my office to pack up, head to my car, and drive home, knowing I can make it by 10 p.m. if I-95 is flowing (which it wasn't last night, so I took back roads). Ah, but on the way out, I took pictures of the two clocks displayed before the parking lot. It was 9:27. I was the only car in the parking lot (during the day, there tends to be more). And both these clocks were absolutely wrong. 

No wonder I leave work so exhausted. And now I'm wondering if we should work with elementary education faculty to work with administrators and technicians on how to tell time. I do know the church bells ring on the hour, usually at the exact right time. Now, if only we can get the buildings in synch with the secrets they seem to know we'll be all set..

And just like that I'm filing this in a folder of "Universals Needing to be Addressed."

This Approaching 50-Stuff is Coming at Me In Stereo...When Grad Students Find It Difficult to Simply Plot the Story of Wizard of Oz

I need to update my tools. Wizard of Oz is no longer in the repertoire of stories a majority of kids know. They know of it, but don't know it. Drawing on Best Practices in Writing Instruction and a chapter on Narrative Writing we 'piggy-backed' on the arc of The Three Little Pigs to plot a story of our own (Freytag's pyramid...basic, late elementary-school stuff). The problem was in recall. The storyline was not engrained in the head of the learners, which is a demonstration that I'm getting old.

To be fair, the graduate students were kind with the prompt, although they said they will think of something that might be more in the grasp than Dorothy, Toto, and the moral of the story, "There's no place like home."

Now, I knew I was out-of-vogue with music (shucks, I've always been out of touch with music), but I guess I thought Wizard of Oz was still a family ritual, because...well, isn't it? 

It's not. 

I had to coach the crews with this, and I've learned my lesson. What has worked for 12 years with grad classes is over and I now think I'd be better with a children's book shared in class and then a tracing of the arc....all to prove a point for helping young writers with their own beginning, middle, and end.

Oh, I'm an episode of The Chair I am. 

Actually, I made this point to the students in which case they came to my defense saying that I still have the works of good instruction, but that flying monkeys need to be retired. I thought going to children's classic was the surest way to assure the point I was trying to make. Whomp. Whomp. Whomp. It is no more.

Well, time to get the heating pad, some denture cream, and to schedule that colonoscopy. This was my bad. I own it. I just never thought I'd see such a day. Que sera sera. And I thought the loss of running 10 miles a day was a blow to my ego. I mean, Geez.

New Welcome Mat on Mt. Pleasant (Not a Froad, but a Nisse)...I Can Live With That. Gnome Sweet Gnome

I'm probably one of a few who look under mushrooms and in rocks for gnome-life, simply because I think gnome-life would be pretty cool. Way back in 2003 (I think it was 2003), we had a quest to find gnomes in Denmark. Tiana bought me a great book, and thematically we focused on Danish folklores and storytelling. It was fun. But, we didn't capture any gnomes.

Then, reading the Harry Potter series, I was rather excited so many lived outside the Weasley's home. I was horrified, perplexed, and peeved, however, that they never made the cut to any of the movies. What were they thinking?

Sadly, my frog mats faded (Welcome to the Lily Pad) as did the seasonal-exchange mats my mother bought me. The sun on the front steps is brutal - I don't think too many could endure the full sun that shines there.

I picked up a couple of table clothes for the new table, too. Obviously I stopped by CTS, followed by Lowe's - my dishwasher died over a year ago and I'm just now getting around to replacing it. I don't mind doing dishes by hands - reminds me of all those years on Main Street with my grandma in Sherburne. 

Concentrating on grading and classes today, and editing POW. Phew. Also need to finish a grant report. Slow and steady wins the race and Lord knows I'm running all day (albeit very slowly).

Why did the Nisse love going to the dentist? Because he liked being gnome. (ba dum dum ch)

Slowly Rearranging the House to Get Ready for the Fall. Garage Emptying. Thankful That Chitunga Came For a Visit

Sundays are meant as catch-up days. I knew Chitunga was coming, so I began cleaning the house in anticipation of rearranging some furniture, including the generous table-gift from Dan and Beth to replace the dining room set Chitunga took for his apartment. It is/was definitely too heavy for me to lift on my own, and I needed his help, which he graciously provided. 

The trick, however, is that it didn't fit through the sliding glass doors, even after we took off the bumpers, and then when we brought it around to the front, it missed the front door by 1/4th inch so we had to take the door off. We got to work, though, despite Karallyne's uber excitement to see her brother and the fact that an open door meant she could run after dogs and walkers traveling by. 

Needless to say, Karal was on punishment and wasn't allowed to go with us to Kris and Dave's for dinner (which was the usual deliciousness that it always is). Tunga and I made a salad and grilled vegetables, as well as brought store potato salad.

I also manage to hit send on what I hope to be final edits for a February publication, and began putting some of the piles of books away onto shelves (although I'm running out of book cases to store all the books coming my way). 

Karal doesn't seem to mind that she was at the head of the Mt. Pleasant shit-list this past Sunday, simply falling back to her 1-year old puppy normalcy. The absolute spasticity she shows around Chitunga is absurd. She's out-of-control with love for the kid....well, man.

Okay, Monday. I see you. I'm wiping sleep out of my eyes and drinking coffee. The frigid temperatures arrived and we're definitely no longer with summer. And I predict I'll regret moving as I did yesterday, but I'm beyond thrilled and thankful to have the help.

Lawn is mowed. House rearranged. New ideas ahead. Adulthood. Who'd of ever guessed it would all be this way? But we're getting it done.

When the Ranger Collects Words She Heard Throughout a Day & Challenges Teachers to Use Them However We Wish. #WriteOut 2021

Ranger Kristin Lessard was eavesdropping yesterday. She listened attentively, stole, and threw our language right back at the 15-teachers and me. If we wanted, she challenged, "Use them to write about what you're thinking." 

The words came in one page, three columns, and 90 in total, and I woke up this morning, simply letting each cascade into another, attempting to create something that captured my morning mood, thoughts, worries, and beginning angst for the day. It's a draft, of course, and I'm likely to play more. I'd much rather do this than massage my frustration with the hypocrisy of higher education (which is probably showing up in the cynical way I played here). 

I'm thankful to Rich Novack & Kristin Lessard for partnering with CWP once again on making Reading Landscapes & Writing Nature: Flooded with Possibilities happen for the 5th year in a row. I'm even more blessed (and appreciative) that writer Ann E. Burg visited and shared her time with our teachers on the 2nd day of the professional development. My heart is full. Yesterday was spectacular.

This Too Shall Pass (the 90-word poem)

We are made from the calm, 

the continuity of time

stressed by the temptation 

of finding a piece of mind…

that one blade of grass,

or a meaning from the piliated woodpecker’s shrill,

or that worm dried upon concrete driveways

where the soil has failed them.

 

I suppose therapy comes from 

reminiscing our histories 

letting it flooding our minds, 

to calm reflections,

with semblances of peace,

that ripple seduction,

draws us in, 

lies to us

that we’re not as guilty

of the human-made

chains that deny us 

our freedom. 

 

To me, the unknown is sacred, 

holding secrets of life 

that sometimes arrive with whispers 

of Buddhist intentions.

            All life is suffering, 

I only have a few days a week

to heal, protect, and cherish others…

    the lessons told by Maude…

            Mother Earth. 

 

So, I didn’t stop the car,

nor call for help, 

when I saw the Volvo

hit the fledgling doe.

I just observed

 the darkness,

as headlights, those illuminated streams

beamed before frustrated honks

and where human eyes ignored the forests, 

the places to run, the chance to be alive.

 

Ponds are life.

Lakes are stories.

All rivers bring fluidity.

 

Sometimes the skies tell the truth 

with sunshine and storms,

clarity and hail,

whispering to listen

to the movements of 

our ignorance, 

 connecting us for a moment,

in vast illusions

of meaningful meaninglessness.

 

Behind closed eyes,

the depth comes from such darkness,

making the quiet crystal clear and obvious.

 

How can I not scream

in all this quiet? 

Haven’t we all walked 

upon beaches or trails

where our trash ruins the scene?

 

I have memories,

or are they possibilities,

that explore the metamorphosis of 

the butterfly -

the care within a cocoon -

the breathtaking occurrence

for creating wings.

It takes love, generations, life-cycles

& scenery for such migration

 to cross autumn skies.

 

But where did all the milkweed go?

 

Waterfalls remain

evidence of the obstacles

that water knows from

glaciers to oceans, 

where land wishes 

for another story

to be told. 

 

Vistas are memories,

grandmothers that swim in shorts

and bras, sisters who make up 

games on the lake, 

days that are fished with fathers.

 

I’m a recovering environmentalist.

It's that easy. 

That word is meant for humans.

A statement that forgets how

temporary/weak/limited we are…

… against the larger 

            novels being written

                that we'll never be able to read.

 

Vacations 

on Island shores

are exploitive photographs

for the

privileged 

to keep in scrapbooks. 

Look. I once existed. 

I wasn't able to see.  

Spring and summer

are leaving now. Fall & winter

will bring more honesty...

 

And it’s beautiful. 

 

But for many, the

community is small – 

thinking differently

against that cascade 

with hubris,

the stroll of achievements,

the race towards goals,

& the rush to prove just how

human we actually are.

More power comes from the pause. 

 

A greater purpose

for capturing

words onto a page

before the buildings

and monuments 

crash into the ground,

and pop the bubbles

on the surface of happy places. 

 

If only we could swim

with the dolphins,

baptize meaning

in the twists and turns

of a crisper spirituality

more attune to the hypocrisy,

with the curiosity & the disasters

arriving from the harm we cause, 

rather than a cure.

 

We are flooded 

with yesterday’s 

foolishness.

Nation islands of

territorial stupidity.

 

There's strength in possibility, though,

a hope for doing good,

(with that extra ‘o’ in God), 

both grief-stricken & guilty

for knowing too much,

yet acting too little.

 

Today, I had a chance at

re-wilding once again, 

tasting a Nosturiam for the 

first time, with a peppered reminder 

there’s still so much I yet to know.

Libraries triumph in such 

vegetation…

    …the flavors

        ripple on the tongue

           relocated

             into useless words.

Requiems with justice.

Burgs that jut forward 

into testimonies

        that are more honest 

            about what we’ve been taught

                to believe.

 

So how can I not relax 

when I know there are others 

loving / to believe / in hope?

    When I’ve been given permission to explore

    & connect with lands, native to many,

    and not just me?

 

Yes, the leaves are turning red,

and soon they will fall,

 

We're only a season

for now.

 

Proud of #WriteOut. Proud of @CWPFairfield. Proud of the Teachers Coming to Join Us @WeirFarmNPS. Proud of @WritingProject

It's our second meeting this term. This time, however, not online, after an orientation hosted digitally and the fact that all of last year was conducted via ZOOM & with Padlet (and it was amazing). Even so, nothing beats actually being at Weir Farm National Historical Park. It is one of Connecticut's best kept secrets and Ranger Kristin Lessard is an absolute gem! Pearl! Joy! The prize inside a Crackjack's box. Dr. Richard Novack (recently granted his doctoral degree from Columbia University) and also a Fairfield University grad, is once again at the helm. AND YES, he was in the first cohort of teacher-leaders I was graced to work with during my first summer Invitational Leadership Institute at Fairfield University.

I can't wait to journal, hike, think, question, and paint today under the blue skies of September. Julian Alden Weir was an impressionist painter and although I'm not savvy with watercolors and pastels, each year I appreciate that the park gives me opportunity to try. #WriteOut 2021. I can't wait for it all to begin.

Really, though, the celebration is simply being outdoors, surrounded by like-minded educators, and given an opportunity for Reading Landscapes & Writing Nature...year five of our National Park partnership. We are extra-thrilled, too, that author Ann E. Burg, Flooded, will travel from New York to visit with us during our day at the park (are we lucky or what?). Working with her book has been the most amazing part of 2021. We are focusing on water studies (writing and thinking) this year and have educators from NY, CT, Vermont, and Massachusetts joining us. Ann's poetic narrative, brilliant like all of her work, interrogates stories that were, could have been, and potentially were born as a result of the Johnstown flood of 1889. Who becomes responsible when tragedy, that could have been prevented, strikes?

And with that, I need to pack up the hulk (my Subaru) and head outdoors. I hope you're able to get fresh air today, today, with deep breaths, wide steps, and a focused eye. Make art. Write. Bring a book. Listen. The best stuff is always free. Aim for emancipation each and every day.

Seven Weeks Later - Um, Yeah. 15-hour Workday Yesterday. Um, Yeah. Next 24 Hours, Insane. Um, Yeah. I Am Channeling You Karal

True story. I had Frosted Mini-Wheats at 7 a.m. yesterday morning and finally got a salad at 7:30 p.m. - it's the work we do. There were deadlines, meetings, information sessions, school visits, advising, grant-work, and planning. I look in the mirror and don't even recognize myself. In fact, I get angry. I look terrible. It is a beautiful life...

The exhaustion is very real. 

I'm channeling my dog who never sits still. She is lying still here and I appreciate her for it.

Today is a series of school visits, all while being obligated for a faculty retreat. Meanwhile, I hit "submit" on two major grants and need to hit "submit" on the acceptance of minor revisions on a major project. 

But, truth here. I'm still in discomfort. You know when you take a cloths pin and put it on an earlobe or hose (tell me you've never done that?). Well, that is what I feel like, but it's a clamp on my inner thigh. I believe it is muscular, but I also can feel the hernia shifting for a new way to push itself out of my tissues and muscle. It's not fun. It hurts.

Again, channeling the dog. Rest. Peace. Joy.

Okay, Friday. Here we go. 

Rest dog. Rest. I appreciate the sentiment.

It's Thursday, I'm Zonked. Grants are Submitted. Publications in Press Edited. And I Wrote a List Poem, So There's That & a Turkey On A Bench

Did I write that I was summoned for jury duty? Of course I was. This is the 5th time since living in CT, and I must be a good candidate. I got home at 10 pm last night after being in schools at 8 a.m., and I was like, "Really? Now you want to take me away from the work I do so I can sit in court for hours upon hours upon hours."

Gobble gobble gobble.

And on the bench outside the CWP office sat this Tom as I left one building to teach in another. He was noisy and wanted me to know that he was enjoying his seating arrangement. Par for the course. 

Ah, the turkey metaphor is all there is.

On Being Summoned to Jury Duty (Again)

I got the mail

after checking Twitter,

messaging mom,

texting teachers,

scrolling that book of faces,

& deleting Spam.

Yes, I remembered to order

the online parking pass

but neglected to suck up the dog-hair-

bunny-rabbit dust on the staircase.

(cough cough)

of course the chicken

is still raw

& the garden

needs harvesting

for salad).

Guilty! Guilty! Guilty!

Grading! Grading! Grading!

God, Oh, God,

Why did I just waste 35 minutes 

making a canine-clip

for Suzie Q’s hair. 

Woof. Woof.

=SUM (D4..D36)

accounting words

for writing projects

in hopes of 

resources for

teachers and schools

that excel.

Hit submit.

Acevedo,

I will clap 

when I finish your book,

promise,

but for now I landed

on jury duty

(again).

Folks aren’t dead,

just called, 

hoping rain

washes leaves

and mouse poop

from porch,

before Saturday’s 

nature-romp with 

Julian Weir, journals,

paintbrushes, easels, 

& ecological 

word-play. 

Prayers up 

for that baby deer,

last night

lying in the middle

of Black Rock Turnpike

paralyzed by

a BMW

hurrying 

somewhere.

nowhere.

everywhere.

(those eyes)

(the back legs)

Human beings suck.

Weather channel checked.

Storms coming

Fuck. 

Toenails 

need cutting.

Objection.

This Dutch boy 

needs his finger back.

I need to lose 

Covid-weight

by Friday

Catching Up on #EthicalELA Open-Write September & a Thought About Driving Home in the Dark Where Deer Jump Across Streets

My poem is not about a deer, although I've written about them before. Rather, I have a poem about my school nick-name, Mr. Moonbeam, and how I was enshrined with the title by a little guy in the first week of his schooling. Somewhere, Bonnie Cecil has the children's book I wrote and she had illustrated - would love to see that in print somehow. 

Nope. I came home another way because I wanted to get groceries.

Sadly, a little doe was struck in the back legs crossing Black Rock Turnpike, and the lady who hit her was on the side of the road. Traffic was backed up for miles, and I can see the face of the deer, still alive, struggling as to what she should do. Her back legs weren't working. I couldn't help but see Glamis and Karal in her eyes. She was just being a deer. Humans and their vehicles...their roads...their speed...and their need to be everywhere at once. Can't help but look in the eyes of lamed deer and see God, always trying to teach us something - humans suck. Period. Easy lesson to learn.

Anyway, on a happier note, I loved being Mr. Moonbeam and thoroughly enjoyed writing a poetic rendition of the story where I got the name. That's my poem for this humpday.

Mr. Moonbeam

On a rug made of 

threaded A, B, C’s

& the 1, 2, 3’s of reading buddies,

we sat in anticipation of a book - 

these little stars entering the tradition

of bureaucracies before the tests,

squirming like kittens and puppy dogs

in a pen just waiting to be picked up,

taught how to hold a pencil

and color a world of possibilities.

He looked up at me,

this gigantic

man squatting upon 

a kindergarten chair

wondering exactly who 

I was supposed to be. 

“We know who we are,” he said

behind folded arms and puckered lips,

“But who are you?”

I didn’t know. I had 17- and 18-year olds

kicking and screaming from 3 floors up,

wanting to gossip, sleep, and hate

everything they knew as school.

We were mentors, I suppose.

Traditions. Goliaths

with sweaty armpits

and lip liner

trying to be 

older than we were.

“I don’t know who we are” 

I responded, tucking that book

under an arm and trying to be coy

in a playful adulting voice.

“I’m guess I’m a teacher.”

He knew otherwise.

He seemed to know

of frogs, dragonflies,

turtles, fish, rabbits & ducks.

He knew the power of words,

letters, story-telling and hope…

the insecurity and the guessing…

the pretending and the performance.

“No you’re not,” he attested,

becoming a mayor of 5-year olds,

and political empire to 

soon-to-be graduates. 

“They are the Moonbeams. 

And you…

you are Mr. Moonbeam.”

Sometimes it’s funny

how the light trickles

from nightly stars

and sheds light on ponds 

and lily-pads. 

The cattails really

are spectacular.

“Well, I guess I am,” 

I admitted, returning to the book.

That was a phase

where I felt full, 

like a crescendo

blaring the obvious.

“Yes, that is who I am.

Mr. Moonbeam.”