Be Here Now

Weirdly inspired by Nick Flynn's "Parrot."

Don't be attached to time.

Hurl rocks into the emptiness.

Listen to music. Sigh.

Be in the chair you're in.

That poetry book to the left of you holds aching wisdom.

The device on the right -- the news of the world.

Don't be attached to either.

Look for the unexpected rainbow.

Watch the Little Blue Heron fly.

31. Commitment -- motto for January

#64Challenge

When reading an essay in Mark Matousek's inspirational When You're Falling, Dive, I came across this quote:

Attachment wants things to stay the same, especially in relation to us. Since everyone and everything is always changing, this is obviously doomed. Commitment, on the other hand, does not say things must stay the same for us to be happy, but that we will abide with ourselves affectionately throughout these changes.

From the moment I read this, I had the word "commitment" stick to me like glue. I will be honest -- it isn't a word I have ever spent much time thinking about. But as I was entering 2020, and a new semester with a lot of changes, it seemed like the perfect word.

My next step was to find a quote I could use for my classroom motivational whiteboard I'm finally using for its intended use. I discovered this quote from Tony Robbins:

Stay committed to your decisions, but stay flexible in your approach.

So there it was: Stay committed. Stay flexible.

The first three days back showed me that this is going to be the best advice possible.  Here is to a committed -- and flexible -- approach to 2020.

30. Cerebral Patience

#64Challenge

In common things that round us lie

Some random truths he can impart,

--The harvest of a quiet eye.

                                                      --William Wordsworth

"Your ability to focus will be your most important skill." 

(From "20 Big Ideas 2020" by LinkedIn)

A gift I received at the beginning of this break was found in a conversation with my friend Annmarie. She told me about a book called Proust and Squid by Maryanne Wolf, which discusses the processes our brain goes through when we read. She promised to lend me the book when she was done. But that wasn't going to be soon enough for me. I immediately searched some things online to learn more deeply about all the pieces that twine together to create comprehension. I was immediately fascinated. And I purchased a book by Wolf called Reader, Come Home: The Reading Brain in a Digital World.

This book is a series of letters that delves into what happened to the writer after she published Proust and Squid, asking and attempting to answer how our reading brain is changing, for good and bad. I'm not even going to try to pretend I can explain all this. Suffice to say the early letters explain how each word we read sets off a chain reaction in our brain, what she refers to as a three-ring circus. It is complicated and ambitious and yes, a little hard to follow.

But it got more interesting to me when I got to letter #4 "What Will Become of the Readers We Have Been?"  Again, lots of questions and diving into how much we read (more than ever), how we read (lots of word spotting and skimming), what we read, and how things are written. In other words -- every aspect of our reading and writing lives has been affected by the digital age.

The short of this is that with all the skimming we have trained our minds to do, we are not using our working memory as much as we used to. Herein lies the danger -- not having the patience to do the hard work of reading, because we've adapted to making it quicker and easier, both in how we write, and how we read.  We no longer take the time to apply the "quiet eye" mentioned by William Wordsworth -- a practice of focus and attention that is getting lost.

And it goes beyond our reading lives. Wolf says: The future of language is linked both to the sustained efforts by writers to find those words that direct us to their hard-won thought and to the sustained efforts by readers to reciprocate by applying their best thought to what is read (p.85)  It reminded me of my last post about my reading life in 2019, where I reflected on my reading and found myself saying: It's a joy and a delight and I am grateful to every writer who has the courage to get their books in print. I will do my best to uphold my end as a reader!


As a writer myself, I am not taking this reading issue lightly. As a reading teacher, I can't afford to.

But the eye-opener here is what came next. Wolf describes her own "case study." She decided that after years of fast reading, she would pull a beloved book off the shelf, one she loved in college by Herman Hesse, and give it a read. She found immediate frustration with the long sentences, the complexity of thought and text, the effort it took. She found she simply could not read it, and put it aside.

Later, she realized she didn't want to give up on her book "friends." She gave the Hesse book another try -- but this time, took it slow.  By applying the quiet eye, allowing for some cerebral patience, she was able to recapture her love for the book, for the meaning it invoked, and what it had to offer. She discovered that her problem had been trying to read too fast.

This reminded me of last February when I got the book Unsheltered by Barbara Kingsolver from the library. I knew I only had two weeks to read it, since there was a wait list at the library. It was 464 pages, and I had a full work schedule. But I was determined. I set to work, making a keeping a schedule that would help me get through the book. And it wasn't an easy book, by any means. It was the longest book I read all year and, in Kingsolver fashion, had at least five different archaic words sprinkled through the text I had to look up. There was a lot to absorb, and couldn't be read quickly, even though I was on a tight schedule.

When I completed the book (a day early, if I recall correctly) I remember feeling ecstatic. I had taken on a challenge in the past I would not have done. Many times I've started books only to return them by the due date unread. The other part of this is that I was delighted with the dual stories that were presented, and felt smarter for it.

After reading Wolf's experience with Hesse, it got me thinking about that experience -- how I set my mind for two weeks to a task that really worked my brain, every day, because the goal was important to me.

But then I looked at my reading list, and had to chuckle. After that experience, the deep reading with a quiet eye for a dozen days or so, I see I followed it up with three youth novels, two that were written in verse. I also read a popular fiction book, a beach read it would be called. It was like the workout of Unsheltered left me in a place where I just needed a break!

So...has my reading brain changed?  I'd say it has. I can see it. But I am also learning that there are times for fast reading, and times from slow, and it is up to me to discern which.

The implications for me as a teacher -- well, a lot of that remains to be seen. I have seen kids read large books and then say they want something easier, and I've always supported it. The cerebral patience it takes for large books can be daunting. I think of the kids who read nothing but Wimpy Kid and Dork Diaries type books. There is a lot of debate between teachers on whether to wean them off of those books -- and I've tried at times, rarely with success.

Knowing what I know now, about the need for some focus and attention on reading, the fact that our distracted mind and desire to read everything quickly is detrimental in the long run, I believe I need to find ways to make this knowledge part of how I approach my teaching in reading and writing (because some of my writers just want to write fast and not really delve in.) I want to remember how writers choose their words carefully, put everything in for a reason, and consequently help inspire my readers and writer to develop some cerebral patience. It is a worthy cause in a changing world.

The bottom line -- there is a time for word spotting, and a time for a quiet eye. Probably the best thing I can do is teach myself as well as my students how to balance the two. It's an exciting adventure and a new semester. I've got work to do!

Only

Today I read David Kirby's poem "Look, Slavs" and loved the ending line:

Only people who aren't us can tell us who we are.

I decided to make a poem from this -- one we often call an "Inner Voice" poem, for lack of a better term.  However, I recently learned these are called spine poems, which makes perfect sense.

Only a new year can bring this commitment among
people, as we think we can and will be better.
Who doesn't love a new beginning?
Aren't we always getting tired of repetition? It's in
us to want to explore the new.

Can you tell we are Americans? Can you
tell we never want to stop? Look at all Manifest Destiny gave
us! There was not tiring out. And those
who made the trips across the plains and mountains know better than
we the true cost. They may have searched and found gold, but we
are the beneficiaries, the ones who glitter, the ones who want everything new.

Tide Goes Out (but never really leaves)

 

Christmas 2019 tide going out Bunche Beach

Tide Goes Out (but never really leaves)

At first I thought this was another

“Since, Unfinished” Richard Blanco-style

poem, you know, the one that uses the

repeated phrase “I have been writing this since…”

but I haven’t been writing this.

It has been writing me.

Not sure exactly when it started, but I know

I cannot start a new year until I have completed

the business from the last year, the thing that

has been skirting around the periphery of my mind

since, well, I’m not sure. July maybe? And it came

to full force in mid-November and actually has

never left me since, even though I tell myself,

you should be long over this by now. What are

we talking about? Almost 45 years. But do these

things make sense? From what I’m learning…no.

It started with a song, of course, one called

“Seasons in the Sun” that is a beautifully moving

song when performed in Jacques Brel is Alive and Well

and Living in Paris, but was turned into a pop ditty

in the 1970’s by Terry Jacks. It is this version that

haunts me. It is one my brother told me he liked,

along with “Bad, Bad Leroy Brown,” and so we

would turn it up on the radio and sing. Until the

day I was driving him in that red Volkswagen Bug

and the song came on and he demanded I turn

it off. I didn’t want to believe what I was hearing,

but he insisted, and from that moment on I knew

my brother knew he was going to die, even though

it was supposed to be a well-kept secret from everyone

but my parents. The cruelty of that is beyond measure

in so many ways, the damaging effects long-lasting.

I’ve seen them.

But that isn’t the only music that has come full force

at me these last few months.  Just these past couple

of weeks I’ve had to come face-to-face with other

songs that carry me back, that make the grief rise

up. We watched the Kennedy Center Honors

celebrate the artistry of Linda Ronstadt, and as

is normal for these things, her breakout album

Heart Like a Wheel from winter 1975 was discussed

and praised. Lord knows, I know, because I was

listening to it nonstop during that time that my

brother’s tide was going out. I cannot think of this

time without that music. Linda went on to be a huge

influence in my life in many other ways. In the time

it took to salute her, I became a blubbering mess.

Later in the show they celebrated 50 years of Sesame

Street, and again I found myself wiping tears from my

eyes, as they did the song “Sing,” one that I never remember

was a Sesame Street song, but a Carpenters hit. No matter,

because all I ever hear are all the 4^th grade voices singing

the song at my brother’s funeral. It can’t be anything else but that.

                        Back to July, I had time with my brother

and some of our neighborhood friends from days past, and

it felt so good to sit with people that had been there and knew

my brother for his entire brief life. There isn’t anything to explain,

or any grief that has to be uncovered. As it turns out, another

brother was lost in the meantime, and there we sat together

in the Cheesecake Factory and remembered the good times

together, the gifts given by these two, both gone too soon.

And my brother shared with them the news of his grandson, Aiden,

still battling cancer. A month later we would find out that his

treatment would be ending, and in November that brave boy,

decked out in a superhero cape, rang the bell at the hospital

signaling the end of chemo, and a grand celebration was held

throughout that weekend. And I wished I could be there, and

at the same time I found anger arising it couldn’t be the same

for my brother. I’ve tried to say, hey, what Richie went through

helped kids like Aiden. I know that logically. Emotionally, it is

still hurtful.

Richie – born and died too soon.

                        Back to early 1975, when I read the book

Catcher in the Rye. It wasn’t until I reread this book sometime

in 2008 that I remembered this book was essentially about a

boy that had suffered the loss of his brother. I recently saw

an article on LitHub where people were weighing in on

Holden Caulfield -- is he just a spoiled wacky kid, or

did he have reasons for the way he is. And I was happy to

read that most people understood that the loss of Holden’s

brother Allie was the real reason behind his actions, and I

could so relate, I could see it so clearly. It mentioned Holden

punching out the garage windows upon Allie’s death, and

that happened in my family as well – just one window, but

my brother wore a bandage all through the wake and funeral.

And the part about the grave and not wanting to think of his

brother’s body in the cold ground. That is me. That is why I

don’t visit graves.

When watching the film Little Women, Jo and Beth are sitting

at the beach, and it’s well-known that Beth’s heart is weak,

but Jo doesn’t want to hear it and wants to shut down the

conversation. Then Beth says something to the effect that

it is like the tide. It will go out, no matter how slowly.

Inevitable.

So, I’ve been writing this over the course of several months,

and then there was one more thing to add onto the flurry of

noise surrounding this latent grief, these little waves coming

up and sometimes overwhelming me, most of the time I’m

able to ride, but sometimes not. This is about another song,

one called “Go Rest High on that Mountain” that Vince Gill

wrote about the loss of his brother. And this year at the annual

Ryman show with his wife Amy, Vince introduced a new final

verse to the song. He had thought for a long time that the song

might not really be done, so he added a final verse to wrap it

up, and performed it at the Ryman. The video on YouTube of

his first performance shows a man who can barely get through

those final words, and I knew deep inside how unfinished it is for

all of us. We can add verses, I can write this poem trying to make

sense of what makes no sense, and yes, someday we will be

united, I believe that. But I also know that tide comes and goes,

and this will, too. No matter what I do. No matter how much

I want to believe it can come to end. It doesn’t.

It is in the music and the books.

It is in the friends and family who knew him.
it is in the memories that won't go away.
 

It is since…unfinished.

1/1/2020   9:04 a.m.

Richie December 1973