Guyute in the Classroom

Today, I taught one of my favorite lesson plans about the philosophy of aesthetics... using my beloved Phish to demonstrate. That's right. Phish found its way into academia and I could not be more proud of how well it works.

First, I discuss ekphrastic art and the triangular relationship between the artist's intention, the art itself and the audience's response. I explain how sometimes, there is a huge distance between what the artist intends and how the audience perceives the work itself. "For example, if we were all at the Cincinnati Art Museum, staring at a Van Gogh painting, why can't we ask Vincent what he intended?" Yes, because he's dead. Dead, I tell ya. We can't ask him. Well, even if the artist is alive, we might all perceive art very differently from each other because we all come with a different set of life experiences.

Then, I read the children's story, "Once Upon an Ordinary School Day" written by Colin McNaughton and illustrated by Satoshi Kitamura. It's a lovely chilren's book that demonstrates the lesson when an extraordinary teacher walks into an ordinary classroom and starts booming music, asking the students to draw what they "see" in the music. Then, after each child has several big pieces of white paper, pencils, crayons and markers, we begin.

I use the orchestral piece "Guyute" performed by the Vermont Youth Orchestra because the kids are always blown away that kids their age were the musicians. Although it's eleven minutes long, I've yet to have a class that hasn't written and drawn images. Mice, mountains, blue skies, thunder, kings, queens, dancers, volcanoes. Completely contained within their own response to the song. When it's over and I have asked the students to share what they "saw", I then pretend astonishment.

"None of you wrote about an ugly pig? Really? No one?"

I pass out the lyrics of the song and explain. Not only is this a song about an ugly pig named Guyute, it is also a rock and roll song originally performed by a band called Phish and then, composed to orchestral music by Trey Anastasio.

With the lyrics in hand, I launch on showing them the song again (this time, on the big screen).... Phish in its finest. Every single class always delights in singing along. They love the light show. They exclaim about the balloons and beach balls. Because today I taught it in a performing arts school, for the first time ever... kids got up and danced with me. Full-throttle, hands in the air, dancing with delight to Phish!

Finally, I explain. "Now sometimes, there is a much closer relationship between art and the audience response. For example, certain tones should create specific images in your mind. Get a clean piece of paper. This time, there is a 'right' answer. Listen to the music and draw what you see." I play "Andre the Giant" a calypso style song replete with steel drums. When the first student draws and island and a palm tree, I make a big fuss. "That's it! You've got it. That's the right answer". Of course, I let all of the kids lean over to "see" the "right" answer.

Then, I conclude by revealing, "And ladies and gentlemen, would you be suprised to learn that song was performed by the very same guy? That's right. Trey Anastasio. See why I love him so much? He's brilliant."

Because we had about fifteen minutes left in our "bell" today and because we have a keyboard in the classroom, the piano major students took turns playing for us. Mozart, Bach, ragtime.

I hope this happens once again....

 Thank you, Trey

Shameless Self-Promotion

One thing I have learned from my career as writer that I have (obviously) implemented in my quest to return to career as teacher is shameless self-promotion. Of course, I have. And it's weird. I started this "teacher blog" because one of my classes here is "required" to keep their own blogs. Because I'm one of those teachers who actually does every assignment the students do, I decided to launch this blog. When I say, "do every assignment", I mean it. When I assign an essay, I write one as a model. When I assign study guides for novels, they are written by me. But, I am having a cynical moment. My Facebook and this blog have become one, big walking advertisement: Teacher Extraordinaire. Hire me. Look at my displays. Look at my white board. Look. Look. Look.

And sigh. I mean, listen... "back in the day" we teachers didn't have these venues. We simply showed up to schools, hand-delivered our resumes, made old-fashioned phone calls and prayed. When we got interviews, we showed up and talked. No on-line applications, emails, fancy websites, blogspots. A handshake and a prayer got you a gig. Not anymore.

And thank gravy I launched a professional writing career and learned these "tools of the trade". I do like keeping a blog. It forces me to write at least these little essays every day. That and my private journal are the only writing I'm doing these days. I'm under so much stress and pressure serving as long-term sub here and there and interviewing and praying for a permanent gig for next year... I'm not writing. Ye gads. The world's gone mad. Not writing? Deep breath. It will cycle once again.

Finally, I love the irony of it all. I'm serving as creative writing teacher while not writing. Hopefully, the full-time job of looking for a full-time job will end and my mental space will empty and creativity will flourish again.

In the meanwhile... at least, I've been doing some high-quality teaching. These pickles are rockstars.

Wall of Fame

In each and every school I teach, you can always find me easily. Look for walls plastered with kids' work. The "Wall of Fame". Because I am a visual artist as well as a writer/teacher, I love decorated work. Poems decorated. Collage. Found word poems. I am known as the "display" teacher. Past students always say, "Oh, I knew where your room was, Ms. Beck. I could tell from the hallway". My husband treated us with pizzas for Shakespeare's birthday last week. I said, "Just look for the hallway. You'll find my room".

Not only does it please my aesthetic sensibilities, it creates a sense of pride in my students and the parents love it. Schools should be plastered with beautiful, carefully crafted student work. It's cheerful. It's productive. It's also motivating. And so much better than boring concrete walls.

I love when students slow their pace to look for their own work on the walls. Not only that, but they are learning. Stopping to read poems and not even conscious of it. What better way to learn than to read their peers' work?

As I prepare for rounds of interviews to secure that coveted permanent teaching position for next year, I pulled out my good old-fashioned portfolio. Not so much to see my resume, awards and letters of recommendations (that's all "on-line" now anyway), but to see the pages of displays of students' work. And it's a good device for interviews. Who doesn't love browsing through "scrapbooks"? Especially English teachers. Show-and-Tell.

Jolly Rancher Conspiracy

Hilarious! Today, I gave a Jolly Rancher to a student who did a random act of kindness to me. I had put a word document on the "overhead", but forgot to "freeze" it. So when I opened my email, the entire class could see it. The student politely said, "Hey, Ms. Beck. Your Outlook is on the board. You might want to 'freeze' the word document so we don't see your message." I was so grateful (and embarassed) I immediately said, "Oh!" minimized the screen so it returned and reached to give her a Jolly Rancher as a reward for being so kind.

However, when the class saw me give the kid the Jolly Rancher, suddenly manipulative, hilarious "random acts of kindness" ensued. The first act was so funny, I gave another candy. A child said, "Oh, look, Katie. You forgot your Jolly Rancher. Here, let me bring it over to you."

Then, the next student said, "Oh, Taylor, don't hurt yourself. Here, let me help." The following, "Sydney, you forgot your phone. Let me give it back to you." "May I help you with your letter?" "Let me draw a flower for you." "Watch out. You don't want to hurt yourself."

Of course, by this time, I couldn't stop laughing. But, I didn't parcel out any more Jolly Ranchers. The idea is that RANDOM acts of GENUINE kindness receive reward. Not ridiculous, manipulative, empty gestures to be noticed.

Regardless, it ended the classbell on a pretty funny note.

Talking Back

Wow! And what in the what what? I just said to a student, "Please put your name on your paper." He replied, "It is on there." I handed him the paper. No name. No name. This, after talk talk talking while I was trying to give instructions to launch class. I stopped. Waited. Started instruction again. Talk talk talk. I stopped. Waited. Started again. I said, "Please, do finish what you have to say. It is rude to talk while other people are talking, so I will wait for you to finish." He talked back, "I didn't say anything."

Talking back. It makes me see purple, I get so frustrated. My own son is the King of talking back. He's at the end of eighth grade and is asserting his power these days. I say "white", he says "black". "Up". "Down". "Yes". "No". No matter... he will say the opposite of whatever I say... unless he wants something. Then, he is sweet and light. Agreeable. Kind. Otherwise, I face a talking-back monster.

The irony of all of this? I was the Queen of Talking Back when I was a kid. Seriously, I was the worst smart aleck you'd ever meet. However, I don't remember talking back to teachers. Just to my parents. And oohh... could I talk back.

I just got up and walked through my class to check their work. The child who talked back turned around really quickly, almost expecting me to maybe spank him. Of course, I wasn't even going near him... but that was a very telling moment. I wonder if he talks back like that because he doesn't have much power and control at home? Could that be? Or is talking back a rite of passage for kids maturing into young adults? I know I'm not a strict authoritarian at home and my own son talks back. Now, I'm wondering. Why do some kids talk back and others "yes, ma'am?"

And look at what I found for an image for this essay (see below). Is that right? Is talking back merely explaining? I guess it's all about the tone, really.

Lost Art of Phone Calls

The other night, I did this weird (old-fashioned) thing. I called a parent. Not texted. Not emailed. Called. You remember phone calls? When one voice speaks to another? Ya, that's me. I do this weird thing. I call parents.

I have noticed on many teachers' websites, the phrase "emails preferred". I wasn't quite sure what that was, really. Then, I realized what it means is that young teachers simply do not want to talk with parents if they don't have to. I guess this officially makes me a dinosaur teacher. Emails can be misconstrued. Tones are not reflected in text. Understandings between one grown-up and another grown-up with the shared goal of the benefit of children are best found in conversations where tone is clearly heard. Concern, compassion, understanding are found in voice inflection. Not text.

Am I crazy to have been completely offended when, in the middle of a job interview, the young teacher actually pulled out his cell phone and started texting? I would have been jaw-dropped if I wasn't so conscious of the fact I was interviewing. Instead, I simply gazed at him, turned my shoulders to the other two teachers, paused in mid-sentence and then continued. Texting during an interview? Has the world gone mad? And it never even occurred to him to apologize for the interruption. It must be me. I must be the crazy one.

I stand by the idea that face-to-face or telephone conversations are best for communication. Not that I don't love the convenience of texting in my social life. I do. But, professionalism demands more than an email or a text.

Letting Go

The Universe has been speaking, but I haven't been listening. No, let me clarify... the Universe has been screaming and I've been ignoring it. Until today. I suddenly woke up this morning and heard the words in my soul, "Let Go". Clearly. It is time for me to let go. Disclaimer: (umm... I'm not a mom of little girls, so "Frozen" is not what I have in mind here) ha.

I have tried to control situations that I simply cannot control. Like a wind-up toy, I awaken each morning with a renewed sense of energy and by the end of the day, have felt wound down. Instead, I am going to chant "let go, let go".

I am a substitute teacher, which means that I cannot control everything that happens at school or in my classroom. That does not mean I do not have control over carefully cultivated lesson plans, but I do not have control of schedule changes. The dynamics at this utopia school are what they are and I must accept that. Be grateful for this opportunity and let the rest go.

I have worked hard to polish my resume, update the on-line application system and send out emails to principals. Now, I must let go and wait to see who contacts me. I cannot control how a huge school system operates. Cannot control which schools will have openings. Cannot control how/when/why I will or will not get a permanent teaching position for next year. In the meanwhile, all I can do is let go.

I am away from the house so many hours, I do not have control over every single domestic task. Some things are just not going to be accomplished like they did when I was at home. I'm letting go. The furniture will get dusty. The bathrooms will be cleaned less often. But, the walls will not crumble and the roof will not fall down in the process. It's okay. I can let go.

I write poems; write books and submit them for publication. I cannot control what will be accepted and what will be rejected. I must let go. Believe in myself. Put my head back down and work again and in the process, accept what will be.

Finally, no matter my facial expressions or the work my students produce or how hard I strive to serve this school, I cannot control what other people will think of me. I must let it go. I am done overanalyzing every little thing. It will drive me crazy. Let go.

And when I let go, I believe that I will better enjoy the process and I believe that is the key to life. Enjoy the ride. Nothing is forever; that much, I know.

Monster Teacher

My son has a teacher who terrifies him. He is afraid to approach her. Won't raise his hand to volunteer answers and keeps his head down every time he enters her class. Now, I ask you... what causes a teacher to become terrifying?

I know not one teacher enters this career with the goal of intimidating students. We work hard in college and in graduate school to become teachers. We battle school districts, proficiency testing, common core and every other barrier on behalf of the well-being of our students. So, why do some of us suddenly become the Monster Teacher?

I have known some of these teachers in my career in education. They yell at the kids all of the time. Frown all bell. Use derision and contempt. Burn-out?

When I was a student, I was terrified of all of my teachers. But, that was more about my fear of authority than anything else. I was actually surprised when a teacher treated me with kindness and respect. Teachers in the 1970's and 80's weren't known for being the most kind people on the planet, though. And dynamics in the classroom were much different than they are today. When I attended a parochial pre-school, the nuns still spanked and wacked our knuckles with rulers. Of course, I was afraid of all of my teachers. Even through college.

So, when I became a teacher, I promised myself to be the lovingkindness teacher. I believe in treating each child with dignity and respect for the little people they are and the adults they are becoming. And I'm not the exception to the rule. Most of the teachers I know are the same. Kind. Considerate. Encouraging.

But, there are still a generation of Monster Teachers who are in the classroom. And it breaks my heart. Good thing my kid has a Mommy who is not afraid to ROAR back.

Writer's Rings

"Ms. Beck, your nails always look so nice and I just love all of your rings. You really have the best rings." Spoken by one of my creative writing majors. "Oh," I reply. "There's a reason for that. I like to have my nails done and wear beautiful rings because writing can be painful, you know? It's nice to have something beautiful to look down on in the process."

Little "tricks of the trade" actually. We writers do have strange quirks in order to fuel the alchemy of writing. Not only do I wear rings, I like to have certain objects around my desk. Skeleton keys, amethyst crystals, at least one plant. Objects contain power. They should be carefully cultivated when arranged around one's writing space. Other writers need to drink coffee from the same chipped mug. Sit in the same corner of a coffee house while finishing a piece. Listen to the same music while immersed.

Like my writing sweater. I wore the same sweater the entire winter I wrote one of my books. The elbows are thread-barren. It's stained. Torn. Faded. No matter. I still had to don that sweater to finish the book. So, I smiled when my spiritual daughter came to our home to finish a full-length manuscript saying, "I need to change into my writing pants first". Of course she did.

I can only write with one kind of pen. And I'm super-protective of that pen. I won't loan it out. Won't share. Freak out when it runs out of ink and I need to buy a new pack. I can't write in any other ink. It must be black. Not blue. It must be the Pilot G-2 10. Not 7. 10. I only use sketchbooks for my journals. Plain, heavy white paper. No lines. Absolutely no lines.

And all poems must be printed single-spaced. Times New Roman. 12 point font. No exceptions. My students groan, but they're getting used to it. The rituals of writing. Here is a photo from the Facebook group "Glad to be a Teacher". I think it says it all!

With Privilege Comes Responsibility

I'm one of those fortunate wife/mothers who was gifted the privilege of leaving my career in order to take care of my family for several years. I say privilege because that is exactly what it was. No matter my family suffered from serious medical issues. Many mothers still have to work while caring for their families. And when I say work, I mean work-outside-of-the-house. Make no mistake. Working at home was still working. And working hard. Only, without pay. Without an "ending" hour. Without lunches and moments of laughter with colleagues.

However, I guess it didn't occur to me how hard it would be to re-enter the work force. Perhaps because I'm in my late forties, I'm feeling the stress of the rollercoaster emotions that come with interviewing, being declined, anxiety in wait wait waiting to "hear back". Of course, I look forward to my "hit". I mean, it only takes one job offer to be successful in this endeavor. In the meanwhile, I pray for dignity, grace, patience and fortitude.

Also, perhaps because when I was much younger, I was a rising star in my career. One principal actually called me a "hot shot" and called me with the job offer before I even returned home from the interview. Now, there is a whole younger generation of "hot shots" that are my competition. Not that I'm complaining. I'm not. I'm simply reflecting on the weirdness of suddenly being older and thinking, "what in the what what?"

I have to admit, I was a bit stunned when I returned to the classroom this fall at a substitute teacher. I wasn't used to so much physical stimulation that comes with a school full of kids after years of quiet days. I've had to build my physical stamina, as well. No nap times during a full school day. No curling up with a book for a half an hour. I jumped full-throttle back into teaching. It's exhilarating, but exhausting. And of course, I still have all of the responsibilities at home that I used to have.

What working mother doesn't, though? I'm certainly not alone. I remind myself to "get going with the get go" all day long. When I awaken at 5:30 a.m. I pray, "Thank you for having a school to go to today." Count blessings; don't list grievances. I get that.

I just didn't understand when I left my career how arduous a journey it would be to re-enter.

Teacher Schtick

We teachers have shticks that keep our students engaged. For example, not only am I the "story-teller" teacher, I also call my students "pickles". I'm the "Jolly Rancher" teacher as well. I do not reward students for the right answer with Jolly Ranchers. I dole them out for random treats and when I catch a student doing a random act of kindness. I also tell them, "Raise your right hand and repeat after me, 'On my honor, I will not choke'". Of course, that also gets a laugh.

Pop-up Music Moments. Sidewalk chalk Haiku days in the Spring where we write our poems all over the concrete walkways to the entrance of the school. Spider Moments. If a bug of any kind is found in my room (including spiders), we gently scoop them up into a tissue and free them outside because every life deserves a chance. "Be free, Spider. Be free". No stomping or squishing. Freedom.

Botox... I joke around about wanting Botox so my face doesn't reveal my expressions. Yesterday, a student brought in a brochure about a natural alternative to Botox that her mama sent. She said, "Since my mom has been using this stuff, I honestly can't read her expressions. It really works, Ms. Beck".

Zip-Zap-Zop is my "classroom game" we play from time-to-time. This, after the name game we play at the beginning of the year. Chants such as "Writing is not an event. Writing is a process". When we walk through the hallways, I say, "Tip-toe, tip-toe like anywhere a mouse can go" which is my method of teaching prepositions. "Get going with the get-go" is another phrase. "What-in-the-what-what" and "For all the world" are my alternatives to profanity.

I tell every class, "You are my favorite class. Seriously, my favorite class". But, I tell that to every class. Of course, they find out and pretend indignation. But, they still light up when I tell them they're my favorites.  Clutching their essays or tests or writings to my chest and telling them, "This is the best gift you could ever give me. Your words. I can't wait to read. Thank you".

And when the writing is good, I break into my "poetry dance". I dance around a bit and sing, "'cuz you are so smart. My kids are so smart." Ownership and belonging... what kids crave. My pickles. My delight.

Finally, once I know my students well... hugs, love and laughter. Lots of laughter. More love.

Rainy Days

On rainy days, it's good to remember the blessings of life. I'm not just talking about the weather. I'm talking about the teacher blues. Having been "hit" with some professional disappointments, I can decide whether to let that take me down down down or get back up and get going with the get-go. And sometimes, that's easier said than done.

But, moments like teaching (In Just-) and looking out my classroom windows to see children jump-rope running are just so inspiring. Announcing the "winners" of our classroom PSA contest promoting the importance of keeping the arts alive in public schools to be aired on our local television station is exciting. Preparing elementary children for their first public reading this Saturday melts my heart. Walking up to the steps of the school to find a heart made of dandelions placed on the concrete delights me with a smile.

So, when the literary journal I so wanted to place my poems in declined me... I used it as an example to my creative writing students of "a writer's life". We must accept rejection as part of the process, tuck it away and keep submitting. I told my kids, "So, if I ask you to write yet another revision... accept that. Writing is not an event. Writing is a process." This is a mantra we chant regularly.

Today, I am focusing on my teacher's mantra: "I'm so grateful to have a classroom in which to float. I'm so grateful to be a teacher. I'm so grateful for these students. I'm so grateful for today." Concentrating on the present. The moment. Today.

Alchemy of Poetry

I don't know how it happens, but it does. When poets write (or read) in the same room, it's amazing how certain themes and strains wind their way through lines of poetry without purposeful intent. It's magic.

In class the other day, I assigned an e.e. cummings poem as inspiration to focus on form. We poets put our heads down to write. I write along with my students. Great opportunity to get some of my own poems written. Imagine my astonishment when circling the room, I leaned over one student's computer to see the same melancholy tone I had written in my own poem. I raced over to my computer to print. We read our poems and the class was blown away. How had this young poet and I had captured the same feelings... even using some of the same words to write our poems? We hadn't talked about it. And... what's even more weird? Our melancholy poems were radically different than the rest of the class's Spring-themed poems of hope, happiness and sunshine. We wrote about regret, shame, sadness. Our words were just so aligned. The feeling in-tune.

Last night, The Teen Howl Poetry rocked the mic. Again... without pre-planning, themes began to emerge. These poets don't even attend the same schools or even live in the same counties, yet... fireflies, carnivals, Kentucky culture, angst, magic linked the individual poems into one collective collage. Some nights, it's "ripping the Band-Aids off" nights. Last night was surreal. Like floating in a Miro painting. How does that happen?

I like to teach what I call "paired poetry". Today, I will practice it with my students. Two students are paired. Without discussion, the first poet writes a line and then folds the page over. The second poet writes a line. They go back and forth until each has written ten lines. Then... the magic. They open the poem to find one long poem collectively written and inevitably... it works. Somehow... some way... the poems become linked. Words are repeated. Ideas are echoed. How does that work?

The alchemy of poetry. The divine Muse that hovers over our shoulders and whispers into our ears. The magic of words.

Lost Letters

In the spirit of being the "story teller" teacher, I mentioned the box of old love letters I had found in my attic last year. My students freaked out. Love letters? Notes? From boys?

As a "treat", I brought them into class yesterday to demonstrate the lost art form of letter writing. Texts just can't be saved for forty years. What I learned in the process? Romance is dead. It's dead, I tell ya. These kids are light-years away from understanding the passion and angst of my generation's middle school romances.

So, although the box contained letters starting in fifth grade and spanning all the way into my college years, I only read the first romance letters from my ten year old love. "Put answer is locker 572". Petitions of kids who thought I should "go" with said boy. Boxes to "check" whether I liked him or not. Chronologically, the letters moved from darling gestures of "Do you like me? I like you and think you look very nice" to "That's it! I'm dropping you! I'm done with you." In between, lines of Beatles lyrics and references to John Lennon's death scattered throughout. Treasures.

What I liked was the progression of hand-writing from simple printed block letters to elaborate cursive writing. I showed them as examples of the importance of cursive writing. How are this generation of kids going to read any primary documents if they can't read and write in cursive? Even the most simple: grandma's recipes hand-written on recipe cards and stained and yellowed and curled from years and years of use. Eventually, parents die. We can't always be there to "read" to them.

Sifting through the letters before class both awakened my senses and broke my heart. On one hand, isn't it great that I had so many suitors to pour their love onto the page for my eyes to read? Not so bad for this old lady. On the other hand, I found letters from a dear friend who died ten years ago, which made me cry. I also learned a lot of things about my young self. Things I probably should have read before I wrote my first book of poetry. Insights into the distance I created between myself and boys for protection of all parties involved. In fact, the bewilderment of my seventh grade's love was very telling to me. "I would like us to have a real conversation. Like, get to know each other". Of course, I ran. My unrequited high school love wrote me a letter in college that I still cherish. So clever. He wrote two letters in one. Every other line. One in black ink. The other in blue ink. The black ink was the standard "How are you?" letter. The blue ink was the "deeper" letter which stated, "I can't believe we never really had a heart-to-heart to cut through the b.s." Again, I ran.

However, walking the nostalgic road of these love notes is a gift that I grieve my students will never have. Snap chats and texts will not last the test of time. So, today... I will have each of them write a love letter to themselves to save for thirty years. At least, they'll have one yellowed note written on lined paper in pencil or ink. A lost art form, to be sure.

April Showers

Some days, I must admit, I really wonder what I'm doing in an elementary/middle school. These children are just not my favorite age group. I don't have any experience (outside of raising my own son) with kids THIS young. Perhaps I made a mistake taking this gig. Even if it's only a long-term sub assignment. Maybe it's the wrong placement for me.

Yesterday, my little students groaned in protest about April Poetry Month. "You haven't taught us anything but poetry since you've been here." This particular class only comes to me once a week. Many of our meeting times have been cancelled due to very important Dance Performances and Choir Performances. Understandably... these performances are assessed. My once a week pop up creative writing class is only a chance for elementary students to float in my writing world. Much like an elective of sorts.

However, I felt dismayed. Certainly we haven't JUST written poetry? In fact, we haven't. We began writing letters. We moved to writing words to create our Writer's Toolbox. Those words can be used in any form of writing. Not just poetry. But, I persevered. Actually, I had to smirk. I wonder if this teacher has a copy of "Love that Dog" for me to give him? That would be the perfect book for this grumbly non-poetry writing kid.

And then, in the space of time during my very quiet, isolated lunch, my door opened. A tiny little dancer entered the room. "Ms. Beck? I wrote my Poem for My Pocket, but I don't understand it. Could you explain it to me?" I opened her folded pocket to find in careful little cursive writing one of the most beautiful poems I have ever read. A poem I had never even seen before. What delight.

After that lovely moment of poetry analysis she conluded, "And you know those poems you showed us yesterday? Well, I had never heard poetry like that before and you know what? It inspired me to write my very own poem... the first poem I've ever written. I wrote it last night."

At that moment, it started pouring. Both the spring shower outside my window and within my heart. After the little tiny dancer left my room, I cried.

Perhaps I am in the right place.

Forgotten Laughter

I feel reflective on this last Spring Break day after the rain has stopped, the house thoroughly cleaned, a little gardening and a lot of reading and resting... what I realized this quiet quiet week is the best part of "returning to the classroom" is the laughter. I loved staying home to write, but there just isn't very much laughter in solitude. Not like there is at school. Kids laugh a lot more than do adults. Sure, there's chaos and drama and tears (and not just from the kids, either) but there is so much laughter in the classroom.

Of course, I've read the Laughing Buddha research and have learned it to be true. Laughing more often throughout the day is just a much more pleasant existence for my nature. Quiet contemplation every day is just too much for me. Instead, I found that teaching feeds my writing spirit more than solitude. And perhaps also because my other activities are solitary... making art, reading, cooking, gardening and sigh, even cleaning... it's better for my overall mental health to be in the classroom every day.

I also have become more reclusive from a social aspect the past few years. More so than ever before in my life. I tend to be reclusive and shy away from big social occasions because even though I seem to have a very extroverted (and I hope, charming) nature, I suffer from social anxiety. In the classroom, though, the discussions are directed. The fun is found in context of the work. There doesn't have to be a forced witty banter. Laughter comes more naturally in the classroom. I mean, we're talking about reading and writing while we're reading and writing. It's a great gig if you can get it, really.

So, although I will not rejoice in setting an alarm for five-thirty Monday morning, I will smile knowing that I'm heading back into a school full of laughter.