Liberation Through Thought

It has been some time since I have posted to my blog. Not that I have not had ideas or inspirations soaring between the synapses in my brain; simply that I have been overwhelmed with all I currently have on my plate. As if, perhaps, my eyes were too large for my stomach, and here I am attempting to feed myself too much causing a virtual gaining of weight to occur. It is one thing to be literally bloated and a whole other concept to be virtually bloated. Neither is welcomed. So here I sit, in a slightly rocky chair, humming some off the wall but peppy tune to myself as I examine the emotions shifting within me. The count down to the beginning of the school year is two weeks as of yesterday. In my current state, my classroom is not quite ready. Let us just be honest...it is far from ready. Not to say I have not been working on it for I have. In taking over for my fifth grade teacher, he left me with many (and I mean MANY) materials. You have heard of the Great Continental Divide, yes?...

Soccer tryouts began as it always does. I entered the gym of the club, offering a few hello's and how are you's to my players. They were scattered around the gym, waiting for Coach. Some were chatting as they aimlessly waited for the signal to begin. Others were kicking soccer balls back and forth. This is my third year coaching and I am loving every moment. How can you not enjoy middle and high school kids? They have such interesting and diverse personalities. I put my phone on vibrate and placed it on the top bleacher, out of harms way. Grabbing my paper pad and pen, I turned with the intention of gathering these incredible kids together to begin practice. That notion vanished when I laid eyes on the 17-year-old boy convulsing on the gym floor. Kids can be kids. For one fleeting moment "practical joke" entered my mind. It was wiped clean by the terror and confusion on the faces of my players. No. Please don't let this be real. I quickly moved to his side, n...

     I asked my mom about her reading life. I wanted to know if she really was reading as fast as I thought she was all those years. I wanted to know if she really absorbed what she was reading, or if she was using warp speed as I had been. Had her reading speed changed over the years? She told me when she was in the fourth grade (it was a split fourth/fifth grade class) they had speed reading tests. They read a book very fast and had to answer comprehension questions. They were trying to teach her to pick out words in the sentences without having to read the whole thing – just being able to get the gist of it and still answer the questions correctly. Even now, she says she understands everything about the story. If something is really boring in the story, she will speed read it very quickly; glancing at each line and picking out the pertinent information, and then move on. “I think you have to have the capability to read the sentence, and if you don't know the wor...

The Chair Today my mom said, "Let's cut your hair!" I looked at her from beneath my shaggy mop and decreed quietly, "I'm outta here." No luck I'm afraid for she dragged me by my ratty, red t-shirt to THE CHAIR. "This is so not fair," I mumbled miserably. On goes the old, stained sheet, which has seen one too many cuttings. It will resemble a ghost costume by the time she's done. "Chin up, keep your head straight," she quips light- heartedly, "let's not procrastinate." She just doesn't understand my dilemma, I quietly fume, as she came back into the room with those glinting sheers in hand. Snip, snip, say the silver knives as they rid my follicles of (I was sure) more than split ends. I dread the thought of a new picture; to family members she will surely send. Grumpy and growly I fold my arms across my chest, slouch in THE CHAIR with the worst scowl; my best. ...

A keyhole glimpse about a woman whose heart has been cracked too many times, her soul shattered and crushed beneath the wheels of life. She has suffered so long she is unaware of the decay. She has lost herself in the debris. Others have said, "God is only making you stronger". She has prayed often for God to stop making her so strong. The true mark of unhappiness can only be seen in the depths of a soul. One can glimpse it on the surface; preening itself for others to see in shadows of tears gliding down a pale cheek. Shocked by it in the eyes of a morose woman whose breath has been stolen by the incomprehensible suffocation threatening the very life she leads. Enamored by the destruction it causes; comparable to the raging wars around the world. Of this unhappiness births a virtue she adopts like a child. She expresses a view of chastity, locking all her heart's doors in fear of the world beyond. She no longer entertains the meaning of love, nor the mere concept of...

This year, I have not gone to school on the weekends as much simply because of the 25 minute drive one way. However, in the past month, I have needed to pop in to work on paperwork for case conferences. I invite my brothers along because they enjoy being able to get on the computers and play (at our parents house there is only dial up - not cool they say) and let's face it: this is brothers and sister spending time together even if their eyes are glued to the screens. This past Saturday, I brought my youngest brother, Blake with me. He's (sad I have to think about this) 15 years old, a freshman in high school. He has such a huge personality it is no wonder that he never gets bored. He can entertain himself. I love being around him because he reminds me to open up, to let go, to have fun. The following is the culmination of our day spent at my school. The kid is my hero. Sometimes you have to allow your brother to entertain you. You never know what kind of evidence you...

Time Piece Tick-tock. Tick-tock. Tick-tock. The distinctive rhythm of the time keeper. The soothing rhythm a young child listens to when she sleeps in her mother's old room at Grandma's house. The deafening rhythm in the hospital room as a family quietly grieves for their loss. The annoying rhythm of a count down, adding pressure and anxiety to those watching the minutes and seconds diminish. The exciting rhythm as a child anticipates the return of his father from a long business trip. The energetic rhythm as people rush to and fro in their busy lives. The slow rhythm as children anxiously wait for delicious treats to finish baking. The procrastinating rhythm to a boy watching in trepidation for his bobber to 'go under'. The never-ending rhythm to a boy and girl asking again "Are we there yet?". Tick-tock. Tick-tock. Tick-tock. The distinctive rhythm of the time keeper.

With every change of season people look, expect and hope for signs. Spring may well be the most anticipated season. The hope a furry and rather unreliable and unpredictable creature won't extend the winter season another six weeks. The anticipation of minute bulbs popping up and bursting open like the acne of nature's face. Those first, precious bulbs create a stir in people's souls - the need for warmth. The expectation of 'nicer' weather. For me, it is the first rain married with a temperature close to sixty degrees that causes the stir. Walking my dogs Thursday night around 8:30 pm I noticed a peculiar wetness to the air molecules bombarding my face. Could it be? Enlisting my other senses, I wanted to be sure I wasn't fantasizing. Sure enough, I could smell nature's odor. That particular earthy scent enveloping everything. Like a teenage boy who has just begun to play or exercise - an almost musky fragrance wrapped cleverly in sweetness. The stony we...

Lillian's Granddaughter Lillian's granddaughter is an incessant chatterer. Just the same as Lillian. Granddaughter poignantly explained to anyone who would listen that she would never be like Lillian. The need to share so many thoughts running through the mind. The desire to discover others thoughts during the course of a conversation. Perhaps, the anxious need to cover up the unwanted, awkward gaps of space and time which can occur unannounced and uncalculated in conversation. Lillian's granddaughter is an incessant chatterer. Just the same as Lillian. Granddaughter has found the good in this skill. The ability to entertain friends and family through the steady stream of talk. In moments of sadness using her words to uplift those around her with stories and memories of happiness and good times. Unbridled, in-depth discussions among colleagues; feeding minds and offering new ideas. Lillian's grandd...

Monday night I was at a friend's house. We were chatting about various topics including writing, reading, teaching, life, and her iPad. I was enamored with what she had shown me so far. I loved the concept of the iPad and all it offered. I was considering the possibility of purchasing one myself. Hence, why she was showing me all the do-dads and gadgets that make the iPad so cool and useful. Her son entered the kitchen and clambered on to a chair at the dining table where we sat chatting. My friend, reminded by the sight of her son, wanted to show me this great application that allows children to create their own story. They can pick their own background (or create one), maneuver characters they have chosen, and ultimately tell the story aloud. The iPad captures their voice and the movements as their little fingers manipulate the characters on the screen. Having run through the basics, she wanted to show me what it looked and sounded like when you played the story. After a fe...

One day last week... Upon driving home after a late night at school, I lean back in my seat and close my eyes. Just breathe , I think to myself. A few moments of quiet bliss before opening my car door and heading in to my house. Bags and purse loaded on one arm, I turn the key in the lock, listening for the signs of life beyond this door. I know they are waiting to see me. I know they are excited that I am FINALLY home. In their eyes, I have been gone for decades. "Hello darlings! How's Mommy's babies doing? Did you have a good day?" Naturally, their eyes tell me more than they could ever say. They are just glad I'm home. They have missed me, as I have missed them. Unloading my arms on to the bench in my kitchen, I hang my keys on the appropriate hook and walk toward the couch. I don't even sit on the couch. I slump on to the floor after removing my tired shoes. Leaning against my light beige, rather uncomfortable couch, I wonder when I could afford to...

Jordan is a 7th grade girl at my school and happens to be in my first hour class and visits me during lunch to work on homework. We realized early on our personalities clicked. Jordan's humor fills my day. She lifts me up when I am down. She provides a never ending saga of laughter and sarcasm. I will never tire of her presence nor her positive light on life. The following is just another moment of our exchange and the onslaught that follows. "My mouth just about fell out of its face!" This is the exclamation I proclaimed after I unknowingly chomped on a pinwheel for lunch (a tortilla rolled up with lettuce, meat, cheese and usually some sort of sauce inside and then cut into small sections). All other pinwheels brought in throughout the year had been 'normal' with basic ranch dressing sauce or some sort of cream cheese. Not this one. Nope. This bad boy was one molecule short of a nuclear bomb exploding in my mouth, covering all possible nerve endings with i...

Reflection never ceases to startle me. The ability to sit with a trusted and admired friend all the while sharing thoughts and ideas as commonly as if we were sharing food. After writing 4:59 my brain could not help but wonder how the future would turn out. In conversation with a great friend about 4:59, I began wondering just what good things came from that time frame - those moments imbedded in all the destruction and devastation. I decided to be a little like Hansel and Gretel. Leave myself a trail to remember how to get back after I have finished my assessment of that year. Reflection is imperative to my learning, to my success, but I must also remember how to look to the future with my newfound insight - to not get stuck in the past. What were those impactful, good moments which helped to define me today? This is my trail. Instead of using bread crumbs (seriously, they should have rethought that one), I'm opting for pebbles. Pebble 1: Rememb...

Another’s post inspired me to go shopping for a new purse (I am so not a shopper at heart. My idea of shopping involves food or books – not purses or clothes.). The one I currently had was much darker than the spring I was anticipating and anxious for. I wanted some bright colors infused in my day, and what better way than through a purse I would carry everywhere I went! Naturally, you are wondering what in the world this has to do with scrapping a notebook. I’m getting there. My first thought when I was rifling through the purse - checking all possible pockets - was my current writer’s notebook wouldn’t fit. I was mortified! I buy purses on the basis that my notebook WILL fit. I couldn’t imagine buying this colorful, lovely purse (which I adored very much – not to mention it was on sale!) if my notebook wouldn’t fit. My notebook is like my bible and it is always with me no matter where I am going. Not having my notebook fit was NOT an option. I had two choices: a) give up the pu...

Shedding so many of these I felt compelled to create a different kind of one.                Human Rain                                               y                      o                      u                    begin                    as an         ...

I was inspired by Miss Moyer's post yesterday about her letters from Alaska. My mind-gears began churning and before I knew it I was tapping out a poem (okay, the poetry isn't surprising because I write poetry like I drink milk - which is a lot). I was half way through when it began changing directions on me. I like when writing does that - fakes me out, like a really cool soccer move. When I least expect it, a curve ball is thrown. I sat in my chair, fingers hovering over the keyboard, a little taken aback. Within seconds, my fingers found the keys again and the rest of the 'story' came tumbling out. Words have a life of their own - true story. :) Paper & Ink My fingers smooth your silky face as I work the thoughts around in my mind. Each wrinkle on your face will hold my dreams, fears, and secrets. I dab my quill in jet black, preparing to expose my newest thoughts to you. Anticipation as my hand hovers above you, attempting to compose myself. ...

I came into this position towards the end of July, thinking to myself I must be certifiably insane for accepting. I have never had "7th grade bones" in me. I've never had "middle school bones" in me for that matter. My heart, my passion has always been set on elementary, specifically 4th and 5th grades. So, here I sit -- roughly two-thirds of the way in -- contemplating my demise as a 7th grade special education teacher and feeling rather blue. I surely didn't feel this way at the beginning of the year. Heavens no. I was terrified. Nervous. This age group was foreign and untamed. Would I be a good teacher for them? What would I learn this year? Would they learn anything from me? Would my colleagues find me useful and approachable? Would I be able to do my best no matter what? It's not about the age group anymore though. It's not about the "middle school" idea anymore. It's about knowing I have to leave behind a group of kids I hav...

  And the sickening pit in her stomach grows as she realizes what she has just done. She has unequivocably opened her heart and soul up to the readers of the world. She has allowed others into the granite caves of her soul. It's one thing to share her mind to a select few, but to completely shed the protective covering she has grown so accustomed to is absurd. Her fear is absurd to, but try telling her that. I wrote this in a response to a great friend of mine who nudged me to participate in the SOL in the first place. These were my thoughts after I posted my first SOL. I literally, absolutely, felt the intense urge to use the restroom - or at least the wastbasket sitting next to my desk. The sharing of something so personal and soulful was incomprehensible. I couldn't imagine sharing my inner most thoughts with people I had never met. Not to mention possibly receive comments from them about my writing! Are you kidding me! For me, it was comparable to jumping on my bike w...

A clock shouldn't give a person so much pause as it does me. It should not incite fear in a person as it does me. It shouldn't mock a person's existence with each tick-tock as it does me. It's 4:59. If I spend too much time thinking about it I'll add four plus five to get nine. 99. If I subtract those two I get another number. 0. Why should 4:59 matter so much to me? What about this time has caused a growing sense of angst in my heart? This time represents all the other moments in my life where I have stopped to remember what occurred at a specific hour. Can I remember these affecting times now? No. My memory does not serve me well in this matter. No, what I remember are the moments which have shaped me. The moments which cause me to glance at the clock one too many times. I remember. February. It began in 2009 and wrapped its ugliness up in 2010. I remember feeling as if a plague hovered over my life for a year. Leaving behind its mirth, grime, crud, decay, sl...

I hate you. I don’t hate people. I strongly dislike parts of people: their choices, their behaviors. I don’t hate. But, I hate you. I hate you for being my father. The kind that bullies his children. I hate you for deciding it’s okay to break our toys as punishment. I hate you for choosing to run out when IT gets too much to handle. I hate you for making each day something I want to forget. I hate you for compelling us to be quiet mice when you get home from work. I hate you for raising your voice as if that would make all the difference. I hate you for calling me names no child should ever hear from their parent. I hate you for making me weak so I don’t fight back when I should. I hate you for getting into my head, enough to make me use a knife. I hate you for the way you always push up your glasses when you’re ticked. I hate you for thinking it’s okay to beat your children with a belt; as if the welts tell the truth of our bad ways. I hate you for mak...

It is with an increasing sense of disturbance that I have found myself paralleled to a figure of our history. She was such a pivotal woman in her era; choosing to remain single and unaffected by the standards of a society she never truly felt she belonged. Emily Dickinson has written with such morbid verve; relating and retelling moments of sadness, depressive states of antiquity, and altogether loathe for a life she struggled to live. Yes, in my high school days, Dickinson was a guest in my pantheon of writers. I accepted her disturbed countenance as I felt she and I shared this quality. Her ability to express clearly the pain and desolation rampaging through her heart, soul, and mind was something I had yet to experience on my own. I wanted to write in such a manner to steal the breath of my readers; that they would be so shocked, overcome by the words before them. Their eyes could not devour the words fast enough. Here I am in my revelation. I suppose in an awkward sense I have ...