Write and publish every day. Every single day. Something new. Maybe meaningful. Thoughtful. Precise. Real.

I am not sure how I thought I might do this. I have no idea how I have written for 27 consecutive days. Each morning, I don’t know what’s next. I should find this terrifying, but somehow I have learned to trust that something will come. That I will find the words to tell it.

It’s not that I am bereft of ideas. I have some not quite ideas. Some not ever ideas. Some inklings that I can’t articulate. Not yet. Often it is not to any of these places I will turn but instead to something new that lands. Not a gentle insect with whisper wings that merely rustle. Rather something irksome and irritating. Something that hums, buzzes, crawls about. Draws my attention, feeds me words. I don’t dare flick it away.

Writing daily means thinking differently. Walking around in the world differently. Sometimes, standing still and absorbing. Stretching into the space. Fingertips last. Sometimes, snatching furtively from an experience, stuffing a memory hat full to overflowing. There is a racing heart rate, a gut response to the anxiety that not all of those images will fit and some are bound to fall away. The best ones probably. The ones that can never be found again. Later, pen to paper, trying to recall them all, it is clear that some are truly gone. Searching is like chasing a leaf around in a gust of wind. Is that one you snatch the one you lost? Not likely.

Writing is sitting in one spot and moving through time. Crawling around in other lives. Looking down from a tree you could never climb. Finding a cliff with a view that is endless. Holding all of it in your mind as a whole while noticing each thing for one small moment in turn. The impossibility of that can’t invoke fear but rather issue a challenge.

Writing is ridiculous faith.

Writing brings clarity. Highlights confusion. Writing releases. Reaches out. Closes up. Pulls the world apart. Some pieces are written to be released. Imagine them floating away. Give them your blessing. Others are gathered close and protected. There is so much fragility. It doesn’t feel safe to relinquish them and imagine them unraveling before an unknown reader’s eyes.

What we want to say sometimes overflows. It spills everywhere. The work becomes fussing about picking up what is misplaced. In the wrong order. Completely unnecessary. Like mad dash tidying before guests arrive. Sweeping up, wiping away, smoothing creases.

Other times the words won’t come. They are stubborn. Relishing in not being found. Hiding in a shadow, drawing in their toes when you walk by. If you give up, they hide deeper, grinning at their victory. Feeding on your frustration. But if you turn away, they begin to throw you hints. Soon they will be completely revealed and not so interesting anymore. In retreating, you found something new.

Writing steals time. While you try to capture the world, some of it passes you by. You aren’t where you started. You don’t remember arriving here.

This writing thing is all about words. Knowing which ones. Putting them on the page. Plucking them off. Deciding which ones should stay.

This writing thing.

It’s captivating and it captures.

It lures you to a nest of words.

I am participating in the Slice of Life challenge to write and publish a post every day in March.

Slice of Life is hosted by Two Writing Teachers. I thank them for the community they provide. Read more slices here.

Months and months and days ago I dropped a stone into a river.

It held the truth wrapped in expectations of justice and consequence. The speed and angle of its descent didn’t matter. Neither did those whispered wishes that bound it. They were more about summoning courage than exerting control. I was the one whispering. And only to me.

The riverbed had been there long. It was firmly established. Connected to the landscape. My stone barely had an impact. For me, it was so heavy. In the water, it made one small splash and then it sunk to the bottom, mattering little. I should have known.

I know it sits there. I sense its weight as if it still rests in my hand. The solid feel of rock. All its angles, ridges, smooth places. I remember the committed grasp of my fingers holding firm. And then letting go. Dropping that stone made ripples in every aspect of my life. That time was huge and heavy. Like I was held fast and the world swirled angrily by. I felt buried deep. Like swimming not to drown. There was never enough air. It was as if I swallowed cement. But that was fear. Not of the truth. Rather of the consequences of telling it.

Fear is cold and lonely.

I dropped that stone forever ago. Waiting has been cruel.

But time passes as time does. Moves us back into regular rhythms.

My thoughts moved from the stone to the river. The water was calm. Cold. Frozen. Still. Now it is rushing away, surging and noisy in the spring.  One stone is inconsequential.

I have followed time away from that river. Walked in different directions. Tried not to circle back. Although sometimes I was lured.

My stone remains. Submerged. Still.

It’s important that I held it. That I dropped it. Let it go. With its release went all of my control. I have never known anything so much as I know this. One sharp intake of breath. On the water flowed. Breathe out.

The rules of gravity are all about one direction. I can’t will that stone to begin rising. I can’t hope that at some depth, deep down in the mud or moving through the murky shallows, it will be seen again. It sits on the bottom, not buried, but going nowhere.

That stone was never really mine. I merely bewitched it, wrapped it in my truth, linked it to me. It doesn’t call for me. I don’t long for it. Just sometimes I question how it wasn’t really seen. Water has a way of making a simple stone shine. But only if you are standing there, ready to notice. Not looking off into the distance conscious of other things.

There are many paths around this river bank. Into the trees. Towards the mountains. Under the warm sun. I have stood and considered them all. My gaze is fixed ahead. I  am walking away.

Every year I have one or two students from a program at a local college do a practicum in my classroom. Possibly they will do a social work degree in the future but for now, they are interested in pursuing social service work of some kind.

They may or may not end up in a school setting and are not even sure if they will do work with children.

But, they know they want to work with people. Do important work that matters.

They are not will-be-teachers. They are in the room to absorb, to observe, to connect and to be involved.

Early on, we need to sit together and decide on their goals for the practicum.

What is their personal learning going to be? What are they hoping it might be? They need to choose and record three goals.

Personal learning. Which means they should tell me and I should just sit back, listen and encourage. Which I do, mostly. Mostly. But, there are a few things I want them to consider and so I try and influence one of those goals. I want them to think ahead years from now about what they need to learn to still be doing this work. I want them to look for answers while they are with us. I ask: “Have you thought about longevity with this work? One day you will be as old as me, will you still be here? How?” And then when they look all worried and overwhelmed, I quickly add, “It’s okay if you’re not! But let’s talk about how you might be.”

These college students are in my classroom for a reason. There are just a few elementary schools where they would experience relevant learning for their program. They are not watching the intricacies of how we teach math or asking questions about my literacy program. They are here to think about and learn about interacting with people.

I teach in a high needs school where the majority of our students are living in poverty. Poverty means increased stressors. It means all the things you think it means: food insecurity, lack of appropriate housing, poor health, fewer opportunities. Without going into more details, I can say that these college students will learn a lot by spending time in my classroom and interacting with my students. Sometimes, there are moments that are really hard. You hear some words more than you should inside our school walls: heartbreaking, overwhelmed, challenging, sad, need, need, need.

This is hardly only what it is about. Not at all. But this aspect is there.

The work these students choose to do is vital work. Being able to do it for the long haul is about some careful thinking. It is not just about self care and work/life balance, although those things matter. It is also about perspective. Choices. Self-awareness.

There are certain take aways I hope they will leave with. Not that they should have it all figured out but that the beginning of their learning has started.

I have worked in this community for 21 years and I can articulate some of what I know I need to know. It’s not about figuring things out about others – the students, their families, the community, it’s about looking inward and knowing yourself. Finding ways to keep learning, to be present, to love almost all of it.

Here we go:

Everything is about relationships. Relationships do not exist without respect. Period.

This relationship you will have with people you work with is not one sided. You will give and receive. Be open and ready for both.

You have access and opportunity to help people. Our society has all kinds of inequity and injustice. You chose to be in the role you are in. Not everyone has the opportunity to choose. Certainly, nobody chooses poverty.

Judgement has no place.

Place matters. The most relevant work happens where people live. Where strength comes from and goes back to the community. Where community has a chance to grow. Be a part of that.

Luck is real. You don’t come from poverty? You are lucky. You no longer live in poverty? You are lucky. Lucky is not better than. Lucky is simply lucky.

Needing help and vulnerability are intricately connected. Be kind. Be gentle. Be aware.

Don’t take things personally. It is not about you. You might be present for anger and rage and upset. Don’t take it all on. Bear witness. Be patient.

Be brave. Be wrong. Be humble. You will never know it all. Not even close.

Celebrate. Laugh. Learn. Multiple times a day.

Sometimes, you will cry. This doesn’t mean you can’t do it. You are overwhelmed. You are human. It gets easier even though some things will always be hard.

Find ways to hold up something beautiful every day. Every day. This is nonnegotiable. Take this with you on your way home. Leave the hard and the challenging and the ugly at work. It will be waiting for you to return with new eyes and new energy tomorrow.

Realize that you will learn the most when it is hardest.

Have simple ways to give to yourself. Make sure you have them everyday. Mine include: good strong coffee, a daily walk to work, the world of amazing books, time with wise friends, a wonderful family.

Too tired happens. Sleep fixes it. Rest, recover, refuel. It’s okay.

Know that you have chosen to do work that matters. Remember that thing about luck? You are the luckiest. Let this feed your soul and shine it back out on the world.

I am participating in the Slice of Life challenge to write and publish a post every day in March.

Slice of Life is hosted by Two Writing Teachers. I thank them for the community they provide. Read more slices here.

I have been teaching for more than twenty years. I should be able to tell you some secrets. I should have tricks up my sleeve. There must be things I can do in my sleep. Wisdom I now know for certain.

Yes, after all of this time, I should have that.

Yet, I don’t.

The more I do this, this classroom work, where I spend my days with children as the adult in charge, the more I am aware of endless things I will learn. How many things each child can potentially teach me. How the biggest secret is to be okay with not knowing.

Be. Be with these children. Watch. Laugh. Find joy.

Let them play. Run them around. Feed them apple slices and snap peas in the afternoon.

Let it be quiet. Teach them how to close their eyes and be still.

Smile a lot.

Listen when they speak and even more carefully when they don’t. Notice everything and let it roll around in your head waiting to land with some clarity, or at least formed into a better question.

Wait. Be patient. Honour small, small things. Celebrate everything.

Show them your honesty. Reveal your vulnerabilities. Sit down sometimes and sigh.

Know that you are present everyday for the amazing of childhood. Don’t try to chase it away or shake it out. Childhood is sad with snotty sobs. Silly with contagious laughter. Angry with stomps and hiding. Wild with wonder and delight. Full with the magic of the world.

Read them stories. Surprise them. Enchant them. Pull them in. Marvel at the things you would have missed if they hadn’t told you. Make sure there is room for them to rant and revel. To say the same thing six times. To ask you more than once. They are figuring it out. It takes some definite time.

Let them be writers. Make it safe. Cheer them on. Help them find their voice.

Hang up their drawings, their love notes, their offerings. Be their favourite even if it’s just for this year. Make room for each of them to have a little piece of your heart.

Know when everyone is too tired. Provide calm. Rest. Still. They won’t seek it but they will accept it. Shhh. Hush. Breathe.

Let them teach you. Follow their lead. You will end up in that place of secrets. Those ones I couldn’t tell you.

I am participating in the Slice of Life challenge to write and publish a post every day in March.

Slice of Life is hosted by Two Writing Teachers. I thank them for the community they provide. Read more slices here.

So often I wrestle with being in the moment rather than trying to immobilize it as much as immortalize it. Does a view need me to pull out my camera or just breathe deep and look long? Will I later regret it if I don’t write it down when I only have the feeling left and not the exact words?

Often, I am holding a camera. Often when I listen, I write. Part of me believes it is how I process. Part of me wants to hold fast to what seems important. To be able to look again, consider again, contemplate.

My students know this about me. They are accustomed to me usually having a camera in one hand. “Picture this!” they call. “Can you picture this?” they ask. I don’t know how “picture” in our room became a verb in this way but it has and I find it so charming, that I never correct it. And usually, I oblige and do in fact picture whatever it is they are asking me to capture. Strangely, they rarely ask me to show them the photographs I take. It seems enough to bring worth to their moment or creation just to have me pause and click. They smile and move on.

They also know when I stop in the middle of a lesson and gasp or laugh or just begin to slowly nod that soon I will begin looking around. If I can’t quickly lay hands on paper and pencil, they will leap up to provide it. I scribble down their words and their wisdom so frequently. I have little scraps everywhere. In the pockets of my favourite sweaters, stuffed between pages of the novel we are reading, all over the table where I throw things from the day. Some of these papers I carry from place to place, not quite knowing what to finally do. How to share. What to think. How to let them go. They seem to need to go further from me and out into the world. Some of these words end up here on this blog. Some get pinned to a board. Stuck with a magnet to the old science locker behind my table where I hang my coat and place my things each day.

Children can be wiser than all of us. I walk around my room as if I am on a pebble beach, collecting the stones that catch my eye. Later, I find the perfect spot to place each rock, even if I don’t pick it up for months and months. Even if it sits forever in a jar, I know it is there.

I have been walking around with one little yellow note for weeks. On it I have written the words of a seven year old boy in my room said during our weekly gratitude circle. Today, I put them here. To share with you.

“I am grateful for stuff we need. And respect. And family.”

Because you didn’t hear him speak, you missed the silence all around him. The depth of his voice. How he held so much space. How he seemed older than anyone for one large and profound moment.

Now I can fold away the yellow paper. I have shared this moment, beyond our room, beyond me. I have placed this smooth stone on a shelf. I know where it is if I need it.

I am participating in the Slice of Life challenge to write and publish a post every day in March.

Slice of Life is hosted by Two Writing Teachers. I thank them for the community they provide. Read more slices here.