Most of my day is noisy. Kids make strange sounds I don’t really understand the purpose of. Chatter winds up to a not necessary volume. The class next door thunders down the stairs. Transitions happen where everyone is talking and nobody is moving. There are also the meaningful conversations that are full of passion and questions and gasping and talking over to be heard. Loud.

Or it’s completely quiet. We breathe together as part of our mindfulness practice. There are silent moments during a read aloud where everyone feels everything and nobody breathes at all. Only flipping pages can be heard when we are all lost in our books.  Peace.

There is usually no in between. It’s all about revving up or calming it down. I try to navigate us back to at least a quiet hum. Not always successfully.

Noisy days broken up by quiet moments. This is the rhythm of school.

It’s not often I get to have a tiny conversation with just one child. When I do, it feels like a stolen moment. Extra precious. It’s like the loud and the quiet stop. The noise in the room is irrelevant. It’s all about the one child telling me a little piece of his or her truth.

I listen especially carefully. Things that are shared with me are gifts. I accept each one as such. The words are only a few sentences in total. What I learn goes way beyond.

“You are usually pretty nice to me,” one little guy tells me quite often. I take this to mean that he feels safe in our room. He has a pretty regular litany of complaints about all the people who were mean or who didn’t have manners or might have asked him to do something in the wrong way. If I could, I would wrap him in a box marked “Fragile. Handle with care.” I wear my pretty nice badge with pride.

What is shared is often told with a bent head and a hushed tone. It’s private. Just for me.

“I read my book last night at home. Two chapters.  It was really noisy. But I found a way to do it. I whispered the words to myself and then I could only hear the book.” I know how big this is for this child who so wants to read at home but can never find a quiet space in her noisy house. My suggestions would have been meaningless. She found her own way.

I love when they tell me things in dreamy ways.

“I can’t wait until we read the novel again. How can that Mom even be like that? I wish there was a way to really actually save a book character. I wish we could.” We are reading The War That Saved my Life by Kimberly Brubaker Bradley and my students are so completely appalled by the abusive nature of Ada’s mother. I am not surprised that this book is occupying their thoughts. I am touched that they share it with me. I am thrilled that books are bringing us to places where our empathy for others grows.

I feel blessed that I get to listen. Lucky that they share. I wait for what is told to me in the in-between places.

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.

It is always so strange to me that words hold such power. They evoke emotion. Inspire change. Promote questions. Yet they also work in reverse. When we use our words to describe our fears, our worries, our doubts –  we pull out the power.

Fears shrink.

Worries lessen.

Doubts lose momentum.

The big and scary slowly deflates.

Placing it on the page is like challenging all of the negative to a draw. A stand off. Walk away. Turn and face. Big breath.

I begin day one of this month long writing journey by letting the doubts have their space. If I can leave them mostly on the page maybe they’ll stay out of my head. Not interfere. Not make me freeze.

But they are here now. Questioning me. Focusing my gaze on the negatives. They are numerous.

Words have left me.

Images are muddled.

I have no more stories to tell.

Last year words saved me. They held me up. They settled the angst. I told my way out of the hard stuff. The words led me through changes.  A new job. A new place. They helped me find my way. They shone the light where I needed to look. They soothed me.

Now, words seem to be running away. Or running by. I can’t catch them. They race at me and throw themselves all over the floor. When I try to pick them up, they slither away, What’s left holds little meaning. Words right now seem confusing.

Words are too complicated. They tangle around themselves when I am looking for the simple. The one word. The ability to name. Not even the answer but at least the nuance of the question. They won’t come to me. They resist. They make me doubt that I could ever tame them at all.

I remember those feelings of capturing truth. Sticking it on the page syllable by syllable. Holding it there with images that settled into rhythms. It never seemed easy but it seemed possible. I wasn’t scared away moments after beginning.

Words have visited me here and there in this past year. Always they came when I needed them most. Now, perhaps they are so elusive because I don’t need them as desperately. I just want them. They are determined to make me work.

I see the words standing facing me. And if I am honest, I can make out what they are saying. They aren’t really gone. But I have to walk towards them. They reside where it’s hard.

The face off is against vulnerability.

Mine.

So I need to find brave. Hold my stare. Resist avoidance.

Walk towards the complicated stuff.

And then, the words will come.

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.

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.