I don’t want to tell you about how dazzling it is as the morning sun hits the windows of the wall of skyscrapers in the distance.

Because you need to know about other things.

I don’t want to tell you about the snow on the mountains as grey cloud meets white sky.

Because you need to know about other things.

I don’t want to tell you about the chatty bird song that calls out above the busy hum of traffic.

Because you need to know about other things.

I don’t want to tell you about the simple beauty of spring buds, bare winter trees or fall leaf carpets that I notice before the busy of the day settles.

You need to know about other things.

This morning walk, made daily, is so full of calm and hope and promise.

It is time to believe. To gather strength.

Soon, it’s time for the other things.

Slammed doors

9 a.m. tears

Bruised pride

Leftover anger

Yesterday’s clothes

Not yet breakfast

Brought along upset

“I can’t.”

“No!”

“Don’t!”

I don’t want to tell you about that sweet bird song, those cold snowy mountains, that early morning sun. Or that quiet green bud that says everything is possible.

That yellow leaf that I crouch down to pick up and carry with me is mine.

I don’t want to tell you because you don’t need to know.

I keep it close. I need it all. It’s my reserve that gets refilled each morning. All day I draw from it as I try to navigate the day.

Sometimes, I can make pieces of it appear in this room full of children I teach.

These children who need to know about other things.

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.

When the day starts with a pop up heart, there is room for many things.

I received this heart from a little girl visiting my class early this morning. It seemed to set the tone for a day full of extra big feelings.

It’s like this heart followed me around all day today directing me to sit down in the middle of it all and notice. Appreciate. Be happy.

And somehow, at every turn, I just could.

I sat and watched a colleague talk about favourite Robert Munsch titles with one boy. Soon another child was listening in. Then another and another. They sprawled over each other, spreading books around. And then they toddled off each holding a book or two like it was a grand prize. One girl was left. She was reading Murmel, Murmel, Murmel aloud – a longer picture book than she normally attempts. Part way through she looked at both of us watching her. We both said it, although we didn’t have to. “Hey you, little reader, you are reading that!”

Our afternoon read aloud was captivating. Nobody sat to the side. Children kept moving closer. They squeezed in at my edges, leaning in to look more carefully at the pictures. They posed questions that hung in the air until another child picked them up and gave them weight. My favourite response? “He’s doing lots of imaginationing.”

I cut birthday cake. It was a whipped cream goopy mess. The pieces were all different sizes. Some had fruit. Some didn’t. The plates were different colours.  I called everyone over and let them choose. Another day and there could have been pushing, accusations and huge complaints. Today, each child considered, then selected, and then enjoyed. Cake eating peace.

We were cleaned up 5 minutes early. Unheard of in my room. I asked for gratitude statements and many children wanted to share. Many were grateful that a child had a birthday that day and that there was cake. They were grateful for the morning walk we did. Grateful for adults who had spent time with us.

Just after the children were dismissed, one girl ran back in.

“Oh and Ms. Gelson, I am grateful too! I am grateful for the book and the drawing on the board. It was a great day!”

Yes, indeed, it was.

When the day starts with a pop up heart, happiness comes first.

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.

Mondays are long and challenging and never over. That sounds like complaining and it is. It’s 4:12 p.m. and I can’t decide whether I need chocolate or coffee or to just bury myself in a book for an hour and wait for it to get dark so it might be Tuesday soon.

I am thinking back over the day at what I have collected. Why am I so exhausted? What is weighing me down? If I put it here on this page, can I let it go? Can I literally unload it and walk away unburdened?

Some of it is tangible stuff.

A pink bouncy ball that wasn’t supposed to be bounced all around the room endlessly until I had to grab it.

2 plastic guns that should never have come to school and are now living in my little file cabinet where the confiscated stuff goes because the parent I tried to return them to told me he’s never seen them. Fabulous. Can plastic guns be recycled?

A paper clip that has been fashioned into a pointy thingy and will lead to nothing good.

A file in my head of all of the tattles I wasn’t quite prepared for:

“________ stuck up the middle finger at me.”

“________ said the f word and that I was a dumb a ___.”

 

Auto replay of all the things I said that I didn’t really expect to say like:

“Give me the gun. Now.” (those plastic ones)

“I am going to hire a security guard for the cloakroom.” (serious thieving happens there)

“Stop stripping the books!” (One child compulsively removes book jackets to find surprises. Serves me right, I’ve taught them to do this.)

“Enough of the kook-a-mung-a-ing” (Is that a thing? It was right after recess)

The shake my head but it won’t shake out stuff that adults did or might do that I can’t even talk about. But wow does it weigh me down.

These things I have collected.

But I also have other pieces. They are sitting on the outskirts waiting for me to notice them. Can I rebuild my day into something to smile at? Tired smiles still count.

Tear traces on the shoulder of my sweater from the child that doesn’t easily cry. That tears came so soon after sadness descended is a good sign. Really.

A paper bracelet sized multiple times to my wrist and fastened with masking tape that says “I leve you” in scrawly pencil.

The “you are reading this for me,” acknowledgement from the child who realized that the picture book we read this morning really was selected for him.

I am now at the top of a hill. I place everything down and unload my bag. One deep breath. A gaze to the horizon. Repacking. Back in go those tear traces, that paper bracelet, that quiet acknowledgement.

Collections from a day.

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.

Hey little one, your grief can be here. Sit beside me. Your sadness roars like a rushing river – loud, flowing, scary. It swirls and surges. Sometimes it pulls me along. I let it carry me with you. I don’t feel that terrible pain you feel. But I feel you.

I see when it’s anger. You stomp and grunt and make blustery sounds, irksome and irritating and full of rage.

I see when it’s darkness and you hide. Under the table. Behind your defiance. Beside your very large silence.

I see when it’s confusion. Your tired eyes speak of anxious nights far from sleep.

I see when you shine, giddy with relief when something distracts you and pulls you away. There is room for happiness too, of course.

Oh little one, I can only give to you. I can’t take it away. This grief is yours to carry.

I give you books to devour. Papers to rip. Walls to push. Staircases to race with me. As we run, you chase the heavy feelings away. For a while.

I give you space and calm. Patience and my hand. I forgive you when you stand close to me after hours of explosions. No need for words. It’s over for today.

I give you stories where you can see yourself. We read them together and let the images wash over us like a huge wave that soaks us and then slowly recedes back to the sea. I read them aloud and then leave them with you. Other children reside in those pages. They too feel your anger and pain and sorrow. Like you, they try to protect memories. They search for a way to hold them pure and safe against the inevitable fading.

I watch you as you find yourself in the angry eyes of that little boy who wonders why all those other children can walk hand and hand with their mothers just like he once did with his. I speak it for you when you think you shouldn’t. It isn’t fair. It isn’t right. It feels so wrong. You are lighter after these books, not darker. Meeting the truth, nestling into it, gives us some temporary peace.

So little one, grieve here. Grieve loud. And soft. And bravely. I know it’s now because it wasn’t when. I know it’s ugly because it hurts so much. I also know that in small moments, it might be beautiful. When a memory comes along with a smile. Tell me about her dark hair. What she called you. Those words she said. These things are yours. Say them out loud and they become stronger.  I want to hear.

Now little one, feel safe. I don’t judge your unexpected ways. Grief has no road map. So little and so alone, your path is especially treacherous. You have moved past the land of sad and stunned. You no longer live in a world of quiet and compliant. You have reached the place where this grief floods all that you are. It pulls and pushes. Sometimes you fight it. Sometimes you sit and refuse to move. Sometimes you kick everything in sight.

You are in it. It is the boat you must steer to shore. I imagine you there floating in the rocky waves. Shrieking back at the squawking sea birds. Watching day become night and night become day.

Sometimes, I cry because I know you don’t. Little one, little grieving girl, I am here.

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 live in a strange city. It is framed by mountains. Edged by ocean. Cleansed by frequent rains. It is stunningly beautiful and increasingly inaccessible. Too expensive for almost everyone. It has definite boundaries. Not so much a rich/poor division. But absolute areas of wealth and privilege. And areas of absolute not. This used to be a pure east, west divide but that has blurred. Everywhere is expensive and the gentrification has pushed into areas once ignored and avoided.

Now there are small pockets. Pieces of the city where addiction, pain and damage reign supreme. Places where you either don’t look or you don’t know. Places where many don’t go if they don’t have to. Places we pretend aren’t there.

One intersection is infamous. Main and Hastings. Pick a corner and you can find lots of things; many you don’t want to find. Of course you see what you perceive. Some see addicts and crime and various unsavoury elements of the human condition. A place of fear and danger. Others see addiction and pain and vulnerability. A place of inequity and need. Some people avert their eyes. Others stare in disbelief.

Every time I pass, I search. I look for what I never want to see: past students now on the streets. Current students in unsafe situations. This corner is not far from where I teach. It is the not too distant past of many of our families. If has lures still faintly planted in dangerous and precarious ways.

This morning, I went by on the bus before 7:30 a.m. on the way to a literacy conference. Much of the city was still quiet and empty. Not here. There were people everywhere. As usual, I scanned the corners, the streets and nearby alleys, focussed on what I didn’t want to find. Quickly relieved, I allowed myself to absorb the details of what I saw. To just notice.

What I found was not what I expected. I worried about danger and risk but I saw gentle and kind and tenderness.

An old grandpa walked steadily behind his young grandson who ran in circles ahead and back. He had his grandfather’s cane and he waved it wildly through the air giggling. He roared into circles of pecking pigeons, scattering them briefly before they settled down again. He garnered smiles from a toothless woman teetering against a building. His grandpa engaged him in chatter and reprimands. He smiled big and bright, spreading morning sunshine as he ran.

An old man was supported by a younger woman hardly steadier or stronger to walk down the street. They leaned into each other, needing to stop but carrying on. Her right arm stretched out to balance them as she teetered on too high heels. Too high for morning. Too high for walking. Just fine for helping.

Three figures huddled around a doorway where someone had camped out, still partially prone under a sleeping bag. Shopping bags filled with belongings were stashed against a wall. The four of them spoke intently and I watched ever so briefly as 2 coffee cups were passed back and forth, steam still rising.

I looked to see what I didn’t want to see. I found what I didn’t expect. Of course, it’s there. The connection, the care, the living. My fear occupies such a large space, it wasn’t allowing me to see it.

But eyes on the corner, judgement to the side, I was humbled.

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.

There’s been a bit of a theme as I’ve listened in these past few weeks. A Mom theme.

“Where is your real Mom?”

“How many Moms do you have?”

“My Mom is visiting a guy. I don’t know when she’s coming back.”

“I have 2 Moms. And 2 Dads I guess. But I don’t know one of the Dads.”

“I miss my Mom.”

“I don’t know where my Mom is.”

“Do you live with your Mom?”

“She’s sad I think because she wants to see her Mom.”

“I want to make a card for my Mom. But how will I give it to her?”

“My Mom got married and she moved to a new place.”

Absent Moms. Back and forth Moms. Not quite ready Moms. Dead Moms.

This is the Mom theme in my room.

I am a Mom. I am their teacher. And I am really, really human. So often, I want to step in and be the Mom. I am fully qualified. I can give snuggles, establish bedtimes, bake muffins, walk hand in hand. I can read bedtime stories, match socks, clap the loudest at soccer games and dance performances. I can love large and unconditionally. I can treat for lice and stay up half the night when illness happens. I can beam with pride and deliver huge hugs. I can take good care.

But I have to have boundaries. They need me to be their teacher. I can’t take them all home.

Sometimes, when I see Mom touches, it’s really emotional. Because so much of what I see are signs of missing Moms. The freshly braided hair. The carefully packed snack. The collared shirt under the sweater. Clipped fingernails. Little, tiny signs. Mom presence.

There is no judgement. It’s just how it is.

But this Mom theme, it gets me big.

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 take an adult dance class on Tuesday evenings. We follow a ballet class of five and six year olds all in pink leotards, white tights, high buns with straggly pieces. They leap and prance out of the class and rush into the waiting arms of the Mom or Dad who has come to get them. There are probably six of them. Add their ages together and you would not even reach forty years combined. Take two and a bit of us adults and you would hit one hundred easy. We are old. And not all that talented. But we make up for it with our earnest effort, our absolute enthusiasm and our ability to cheerlead for each other.

We attend these classes for a variety of reasons. Many of us have children who belong to the studio and we adore the instructor almost as deeply as our children love her. We wanted in on the fun! It’s also exercise. And a mental workout. Inexpensive therapy. Risk taking. A source of entertainment.

Each week our teacher demonstrates a few steps and then turns around to look at us. She takes in our confusion and slows it all down to take us through it count by count. Often, she starts with the feet and then adds the arms in later. Sometimes, we kind of get the arms or she sees enough potential that she believes that we might. Other times, she just tells us “freedom arms!” Let the music and the steps inform you. Let your arms move and swing in your own way.

She counts us though.

1 and 2. 3, 4. 5, 6 and 7 and 8.

She makes up hilarious sounds to match the movement.

5, 6, boom, boom cha.

We giggle. We shake our heads. We muddle through. She occasionally cheers, “Yes! You’re getting it!” Sometimes she pushes, “Give me something. Let me see it in your faces. Look up!”

I love Tuesday nights.

Last week, I taught some of my students some dance steps I had learned the night before. We had gone outside for a walk in the afternoon. The sun was shining. We weren’t going to go back in anytime soon. I demonstrated and a few girls were captivated. I instantly saw in them why I go to dance every week. The reckless. The happy. The joy of movement.

They drew dance paths with sidewalk chalk. The practiced again and again. They taught other kids. A few repeated steps with some bounces and jumps was a gift they could keep on giving.

The air filled up around us like a happiness bubble one of us drew on the pavement.

These girls taught me with their giggly leaps down the fluorescent pink chalk lines that it’s not about what you look like, it’s about how you feel.

When the dancing takes over, when you are moving and smiling and sailing through space. When you dance with your friends. When there is no judgement.

Freedom arms!

I walk by my everyday people each morning. I know their stories well. Not really. Really, I have completely made them up. Yet, I mostly believe them. When I tell them to myself so often, my truth is stronger than the actual one I do not know.

There is the older man all in brown. Brown pants. Brown coat. Brown hat. He is gentle and smiley. He moves quietly and sure footed. If he walked in the forest, his footsteps wouldn’t make a sound. He always says good morning and returns my smile. I am sure he is a man of routine. His shoes have an exact spot on a rack. He never kicks them off. He walks at the same time, shops at the same time, rests at the same time. His wife is tired. She rarely joins him but they share morning coffee every day, each sipping and looking elsewhere. When he walks, he thinks of what must be done. Sometimes, he surprises himself and remembers things he thought he had forgotten. His route is long. His morning walk takes time. He never misses a day.

There is the gangly boy. A teenager actually. He has two siblings. An older brother, a more serious and wiry version of him. A younger sister, energetic and bouncy, clearly a girl in a boy’s house. Most concerned about being seen, being heard, not missing anything. Sometimes these siblings walk together. There is easy banter and comfortable silence. Usually, though, my boy is alone. He gives me sideways smiles, acknowledgement that he sees me often. I wonder about his school day. I am sure his mind is often elsewhere – happy daydreams, not teenage melancholy. I think about his parents. I am convinced that their mornings are full of bustle and busy. My boy looks happy to be walking in his own space, in the big world, with no rush around him that he needs to acknowledge. He looks like he knows the freedom a simple walk alone affords him. I imagine his Mom and Dad, lugging overstuffed bags, spilling full travel mugs of coffee, arguing over who remembered and who forgot the daily things that must be attended to. Their son, meanwhile, lopes along, quite carefree, open to a new day.

There is the lady in the pink raincoat. It’s Vancouver. She wears it often. Her boots are practical. She always has an umbrella even if it just hints of rain. I don’t really think about where she is going or what she might do there. Her pace is determined but she carries with her an aura of where she has been. She lives in an apartment she has had for years. It is plain and dull on the outside. Inside it is tiny and hers. There are windows of succulents. Shelves full of books. A kitchen full of tea and spices and bowls of oranges. She has favourite chairs at different times of day. She sits in the kitchen in the morning, drinking hot tea and making lists. Her evenings are spent curled up on her couch reading, thinking, studying. If she is home in the day, she sits in her window and watches people walk by, noticing their movements more than their faces. This is not her forever city. She is here to get something done. Soon, she will return to a place full of sisters and neighbours and friends. When she walks down the street there, she will always say hello.

These are my everyday people. I know who they might be.

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 write in threes and repeats, choosing rhythm over rules.

I overuse fragments. Throw dashes where I pause.

Certain words weave their way in often: celebrate, honour, joy, quiet. These are the truths I want to capture.

I write like I am puddle jumping down a steep hill.

Leap. Leap. Step, step, step. Pause. Consider. Leap.

I write to hint at what I can’t always say. Not publicly. Not really. Not with full abandon.

I write to process the things that follow me around like an irritating pixie. Poking me. Waking me up. Nibbling at my toes saying, “Pay attention to me.”

I write to remember what I might try to forget.

I write to bring tears that will not come.

I write to be here.

I write in threes and repeats.

I write.

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.