What Do We Know?

This is a post that I planned to write several months ago, before my whole world crashed down around me a gazillion times.

Today a storm is nearby and I am trying desperately not to turn into a major slug, so I decided to get myself going on something.  This blog post came to mind.

This all began when I pulled out my Elton John Goodbye Yellow Brick Road vinyl record and in the sleeve I discovered this:

It is dated October 18, 1973, and is from my friend Chuck.

I dated Chuck for a couple of months during my sophomore year in high school. He was already out of school at that time, but was friends with a guy we knew who was still a senior in high school. A while after we dated, he began to date my friend Laura, and it seems they have maintained a friendship to this day. 

The letter itself was a little upsetting to me. The first thing Chuck mentions is that it was the one year anniversary of his being drafted. He still had another year to go. I guess I had written to him about something that he had done; apparently he came over with some friends and they were high and I guess that bothered me and I got all judgy about it.

Reading what he had to say and understanding that I knew absolutely nothing about what he was going through made me see how we never know how anyone else is really feeling. This guy had a job and an apartment he had to give up because he was drafted for two years and became a cook at Fort Campbell, Kentucky. Of course, we were glad he wasn’t sent to Vietnam, but that’s beside the point. His life was disrupted by things out of his control. I was living my nice white girl suburban life and I thought I just knew everything about Vietnam, and about how he should act. 

His letter reminded me I didn’t know a damn thing, and maybe I still don’t!

But Chuck is the forgiving type. On March 19, 1994 I got to see him at a class reunion when Laura brought him so that he could see all his old gal pals, the ones he used to drive home from school on occasion or have over to his house for parties. He really was a great guy through and through, and even though I don’t know what he is doing now, I hope he is well.

Laura, Chuck, and me

Showered and Written

Today when I got up, all I could do was write, write, write in my journal. There was so much information to process from yesterday. 

Jim and I have come to this moment sadly unprepared to deal with it. But there isn’t much I can do about that now.

In my writing, I made a plan for today. It’s just a plan, a thought, an idea, a process. I will speak to others about it. I will listen for helpful input.

After about an hour of writing and sipping coffee, the only thing I wanted to do was shower. I had not even had breakfast yet, so this is totally out of my routine. But I needed to wash off all the gunk from yesterday, all the fears and tears and “what are we going to do”s.

Another part of yesterday was spending a lot of time just staring at the clouds outside of Jim’s room. My friend Annmarie sent me this poem today, and the cloud part really got me. 🥹

Things got too heavy yesterday for sure. But today through the magic of gel pen, paper, and a lovely hot shower, I was able to release some of the weight. Now it’s on to my day: breakfast, counselor appointment, visit to Jim, more conversations. 

I have helpers…real humans and nature. I will not squander what they have to offer.

Unwritten

Today is my niece Cheryl’s 40th birthday. She is a writer, and so I sent her this song to celebrate her day and entry into a new decade of life.

I’ve always felt this song an inspiring message about our lives, how we write them day to day. It’s one of my personal favorites from the first decade of this century.

But as I watched the lyrics go by on the video, especially Staring at the blank page before you, I felt without the ability to write my own life again. With all the drama this year, I feel like someone has stolen the pen from me, and no matter how hard I try, I can’t get it back. 

Every time I think, Now I’m moving forward, something arrives to set me back. And not just one step, but several. As if health issues weren’t enough, being away from Jim is even worse.

I know I am writing here, and certainly this is a way I’m writing my life. I sometimes wonder why I can’t have just a teeny bit of control on how things go…why does everything have to be so difficult? 

I used to think it was all in my attitude; I just needed to find the “right” words and phrases to keep me centered. Truth is, I'm exhausted from the effort that takes. How hard I have to think about every move. How isolated I am here in my own home. It’s become impossible to think about anything but my own need in this exact moment.

It all feels so limiting. So out of reach. So NOT like how I live my life. 

I hope by getting these words down, I have written myself to a better place. After all, writing is about finding our truth. 

Here is mine.

The Dragonfly Notebook

In my summer of purging, I came across the Dragonfly notebook. This was an idea from my friend Wendy. All the students had a composition book to decorate with a variety of pictures I provided, or they found themselves. Then we covered them with contact paper. These books were sturdy and provided writing practice and lessons. I first used this in the 2014-15 school year, when my teaching load was much lighter than it would eventually become—47 students total, all struggling readers. This notebook was how I demonstrated writing poetry and short answer responses. And it went beyond that first year, as there are things dated all the way to 2017. It was my “go-to” when I wanted kids to see how I puzzled through writing or breaking down text, and sometimes it was when we did things together. 

I found some poems in the book that I decided to share here. I consider this notebook a keeper, since it has a lot of easy and powerful ideas I don’t always remember to use. Below you will find some poems that were in the book, things I modeled or perhaps the class wrote together, I'm not sure. Anyway, I found them delightful, and hope you will as well.

The front

The back

*First is the poem that puzzles me as to its origin. It seems to be following a specific pattern, but I have no clue what I was modeling it after. 

Inspiration surprises me

Inspiration surprises me

I am a shining star

My creativity is a guiding light

My creativity is a guiding light

in which I walk

seeking expression

like a Mozart or Van Gogh

How the paths

of the local parks

nourish, nourish

and the silent trees 

nod.

Inspiration rises

between me and things

sparkling

sparkling

strong inspiration acted upon

is beautiful as sunrise

and swift with ideas

Strong inspiration dazzles

Strong inspiration dazzles

opening the mind

and heart.

*This is one I've used many times based on My Many Colored Days by Dr. Seuss.

On gold days

I feel confident

like an automobile

racing down a winding road

on the edge of a mountain.

 

On red days

I'm energized

like a kid bouncing

on a pogo stick

down the stairs

 

On purple days

I am happy

like clouds floating lazily

in the Florida sky.

* The list poem is always popular. This one made me giggle, then sigh.

List of What I Have to Say to 2nd Period Over and Over

Gerry, do you have a belt?

Terrance, you are not leaving the room

Andrew, sit down

Jamel, get your book

Jose, get back to your seat

Listen to Mrs. Buckner

Ty'ree, open your book

Christian, thank you for being on task

Yes, Zoey, you can write poetry

Yes, David, you can read poetry

I'm so glad you're here.

*And finally, a found poem from when we read The Great Wide Sea.

I remember some prayers

without words

I was shining there with them,

suspended and floating free

I tumbled away from space

Slowly the sun rose on a 

wide, empty sea

Skimming the lake, riding the wind

I opened the door and looked back.

Well, my perfect streak ended…

 …but it wasn’t my fault! 

It’s morning. The sun is out.  I got my glasses. I got my Kind Almond Butter Granola bar. I got the most perfect coffee in the world made by my sweetheart.

I have family here providing much needed help. And I feel like I’m growing stronger quickly.

Thank you, my many hospital visitors. And sorry to those I warded off when I was having my bad hospital day. The gifts were appreciated, especially the chocolates I shared with the nurses.

Thank you to all who texted and emailed and called. Your words lifted me and I could feel the prayer wind.

Thank you, cousin Doreen in Asheville, who sent me an email on Saturday morning because I wasn’t blogging and she knew something might be wrong. 

Writers gotta write. And I have lots to write about. But not today. This is just my reentry.

What I do want to say is this: a comment was made to me that the man who smashed into me had “ruined my life.” I had not for a second felt like a victim in this scenario. I could not even relate to those words. I could never square it with all the things I have written in here that remind me of the Oneness of all things and God’s vision for me. I am already starting to see it. 

And I have no doubt all will be well.

Another Day, Another Retelling

 I have two long time favorite columnists from Cleveland. They are Connie Schultz and Regina Brett. They are both inspiring to me as women, as writers, and as people who deeply plumb their experiences and put them in words.

A bit over a week ago, Connie quoted musician Nick Cave in something she put on Facebook. She now writes for Substack and teaches writing at a university in Ohio.When she quoted Cave, she mentioned that she had been told about his book Faith, Hope and Carnage from sister writer Regina Brett.

So, of course, I had to check out the book for myself. 

To be clear, I've never listened to Nick Cave's music. I guess he's from Australia and was kind of post-punk? I don't know. All I know is that what Connie posted got my curiosity up.

The local library had the book, and I've been working my way through it. It is a conversation, not a memoir. And it is full of beauty and awareness and the power of writing music and being a human being who grieves. (Cave's 15-year-old son died falling off a cliff.)

There are many things I want to share about what I've been reading, because some stuff is really sticking with me. I plan to just take one at a time. Today, it is this quote that begins on page 68. 

We should never underestimate that sense of being in the groove of life, of moving from one situation to another with the wind at your back, of being purposeful and valuable, of life having some semblance of order. It's really something, that feeling, made all the more profound because you know how transitory and easily broken it is. It seems to me, life is mostly spent putting ourselves back together. But hopefully in new and interesting ways. For me that is what the creative process is, for sure. It is the act of retelling the story of our lives so that it makes sense.

This week has been one of trying to get my bearings in what feels like a different life in many aspects. What “I am” has appeared to change. But yesterday, after a text conversation with my friend Kate, I realized who I am is not different. It’s the things I’m feeling that are different—feeling I haven’t had before that grow, change, and take me by surprise.

As a caretaker now, I realize that naming my feelings is essential to staying in a loving mode. I did that yesterday, and hope to do so going forward. Doing that helped me make a few decisions yesterday that needed to be made, and set me on a path forward to accomplish some things around here. I had been blocked. There is some relief now.

I kept thinking to be creative I needed to find a way to do something different. But right now, I’m creating a new life seemingly every day depending on the needs around here. As usual, it comes back to the present moment and knowing that in that place, all is well.

I was trying to figure out how to wrap this all up, and came upon this. I will let George have the last word.

It’s being here now that is most important. There’s no past and there’s no future. Time is a very misleading thing. All there is ever is the now. We can gain experience from the past, but we can’t relive it; and we can hope for the future, but we don’t know if there is one.

 

 

Just Write

 

You know what? Just write. 

Show up every day and write something. 

And keep writing. Even when you think you

don't have something to say, just do it. And 

wonderful things will happen. -- Paul McCartney

I saw this and knew I had to take a moment on this blog to celebrate that I have come this far and have been writing every day. Today I am closing in on five full months of writing every day.

Paul's advice isn't new by any means -- I've heard it from every writer I admire: Anne Lamott, Julia Cameron, Natalie Goldberg, and more. But it never gets old. And when I see how it has worked for me this year of all years, how I've been able to keep it going without fail...well, wonderful things have happened. I keep in touch with myself and my friends can keep in touch with me. I find I have to stretch at times, but that is as it should be. 

When Jim got ill, I was worried at first -- could I keep up? I'm glad to report it has not been a problem. 

Writing every day reinforces to me once again that this is my vocation. Putting words on the page has been a huge part of my life as far back as I can remember. It is my expression, my pathway, my savior. 

I say this coming off a year where I didn't write much beyond in my journal, and it was a bit of a hole in my life. I committed to this year because of my lack of motion last year. I've come to realize that hole was needed to give me something to fill this year. 

I’m facing a different kind of summer, and this project will be something to keep me afloat. I can’t wait to see where it takes me 🩵🩷💚

 

Dear Future Me…

Yesterday I spontaneously decided to have my intensive readers write a letter to themselves which I will mail to them at the beginning of the next school year. We first brainstormed some things they learned this year that they want to remember for 8th grade. We also listed lessons learned from the book we were reading.

Most of the letters didn’t say much. But three students hit it out of the park. I felt they said some real things that will truly guide them in the future. One was from a girl (the longest one). The other two are from boys who have struggled with behavior —one who just came to our school this quarter because of issues at another school. 

The Green Notebook

I’ve been revisiting a notebook I bought before attending and presenting at the ASCD conference in Orlando in June 2019. My teacher friends and I presented a workshop on found poetry, an experience that was one of the best in my professional career.

I’ve come to regard 2019 as a golden age of my teaching. At the time, I felt like I was getting a true grip on who I was as a teacher, and had clarity on how to best use classroom time to reach my learners in creative ways. I was teaching intensive readers using a curriculum developed by National Geographic, and I was teaching my own originally designed courses in creative writing and speech & debate. Everything had clicked into place.

In early 2020, I was having the absolute best semester of my life. I could feel the vibe in the classroom was positive, kids were learning and taking risks. We were alive with possibilities.

Then the shutdown came.

And nothing has been the same.

So much of what I documented as good teaching and learning in my green notebook was useless to me when we had to go online and everything became about reaching remote learners. And as kids returned, and the years went on, it was evident much had changed. Behaviors were different. Our schedule changed, and I lost the courses I had designed. I was given an intensive curriculum that was dead in the water, no matter how much I tried to breathe life into it (Read 180). I was also teaching a higher level research course out of Cambridge University, which I eventually could see was lacking in many ways.

By last year at this time, I was ready to flee. I made serious steps to leave my school. I didn’t, and along the way I was released from Read 180 and given a section of creative writing. The Cambridge course was no longer just for high end students, which caused a whole new learning curve for me. I still had intensive reading, but at least it had decent literature (Dickinson, Wordsworth, Dylan Thomas) and I felt I could be a bit more creative and get somewhere. On top of that, my husband received a devastating diagnosis in January, and my time to teach was reduced. I am lucky to have made it to the end of the year in one piece, frankly.

My final year beckons, and I have decided it is time to return to the golden age and make it real again. I’m finding my green notebook has a blueprint for some really great stuff, some I have used before, some I have not. I have some autonomy, and where I don’t I’m taking it anyway. I have absolutely nothing to lose and everything to gain by doing it my way. 

I had wonderful conversations over the weekend with teacher friends, and I feel smart, strong, fearless, and resilient. Who knew when I purchased this notebook at Target five years ago (I actually remember choosing this one over others), that the words on the cover and the words inside would be coming alive in me today? 

In June 2019 none of us had any idea things could go so awry. Now that I know, I realize the importance of moving forward in ways that work. My learners deserve no less from me, and I will be prepared.

ADDENDUM

After I published this essay, a meme came up on my FB feed that went with it, and I had to add this here. It’s a good reminder to stay the course I’ve decided on, so a year from now I can be smiling and thankful I did what I knew had to be done.

An Elaborate Game

 

(This spontaneous riff inspired by David Kirby’s poem “King of Good Fellows”)

Writing this week was a real challenge. I felt like I wasn't able to clearly formulate my thoughts, or I didn't have any thoughts at all to formulate and had to stretch for inspiration. It hasn't been that way all along, so it was a tad frustrating. 

But then I read David Kirby's poem and I found words for what is somewhere in the periphery of my brain and heart and gut.

...what is Shakespeare 

doing if not throwing everything

against the wall and seeing

what sticks?

Yes, I thought, that is what this week has felt like. Throwing stuff against the wall and hoping I haven't totally lost my mojo.

Kirby continues about Shakespeare...

we see the world as it really is, 

a mishmash, a glorious shiny mess 

where I am king and you are queen,

but neither of us wears a crown.

Yes, I thought, mishmash. Maybe not so much glorious and shiny, but mess to be sure.

Then this...

 

Don't limit yourself, poets!

Do  you think Shakespeare said,

"I better limit myself.."

 

Yes! This whole exercise is about not limiting myself. A year of writing after a year of hardly every writing deserves a chance to test the limits. This can happen...right?

 

...because Shakespeare is so generous,

so kind to us...so possessed of a 

mind that makes no distinction

between anything and anything else.

 

Is that my problem? Too many distinctions? Reaching for something that I don't need to be reaching for?

 

an elaborate game that's totally

realistic and, at the same time,

make believe.

Ha! Maybe a bit more fantasy is needed, more imagination, more understanding that this isn't all THAT important. It's an elaborate game I'm playing in my own mind. 

a dream no one has dreamed yet,

but you're in it, and you're the star

Okay. Caught me. I think I'm so original, such a star. A little humility, gurl.

 

For some reason I felt compelled to color the picture of Pegasus I included on this post, even though I had no idea what meaning it could possibly bring. So I checked back into the Pegasus story and found he was instructed by Zeus to bring lightning and thunder from Olympus. He is the creator of Hippocrene (a fountain), and allowed Bellrophen to ride him to defeat the monster Chimera. Some stories have him dying at the hands of Zeus.

 

Sheesh. And you thought Shakespeare was throwing stuff at the wall to see what sticks? What about those Greeks? Clearly, it is all an elaborate game we play to entertain ourselves. What the hell else are we doing when we tell stories?

 

We are all limitless poets, dreaming a dream in which we star.

And...gotta admit...it's an elaborate game of which I'm rather fond.

Thanks, readers, for playing along.

"The Crying Generation"

 

When I turned 14, my mom got me a subscription to Teen magazine. I loved the articles, and I learned a lot about how to be in the world. Yes, there were the models in ads who were casually beautiful, but Teen made sure we knew we were fine the way we were. And the magazine eventually got cut up into fun collages or passed on to a friend, so they weren't hanging around intimidating us. I preferred Teen to Seventeen, simply because it made me feel comfortable in my skin.

I'd read Teen when I received it and then it would be another month before it would show up again. I'm not sure what it would have been like if a daily issue, with new images and pressures, showed up every 24-hours.

This is not the way of the world now with smartphones and Instagram in our mix.

In reading The Anxious Generation, I have learned a lot about how girls are affected by smartphones, especially beginning in 2010 when the forward facing camera was introduced. That was an flashpoint. Everything gets recorded and is there forever. The constant drumbeat of new posts and the pressure to be noticed never ends.

Since then, depression rates for girls have skyrocketed, not just in the United States but in European countries and Australia. It has to do with images of beauty -- very often filtered beauty -- which are standards our girls cannot achieve. It has created an out-of-control mental health crisis. No matter who I talk to, they know anxious girls, even as young as 5. It is why nearly every time we have a parent meeting about a girl, anxiety is mentioned.

Last week an 8th grade girl in my creative writing class turned in a draft of a story called "The Crying Generation." The main character is a girl terribly stressed about how she looks, who is feeling ignored by parents who see her as a "pearl" and don't hear her crying in her room at night. She feels she has to keep putting on a brave face against all odds, and it is wearing on her.

I don't know which is more heartbreaking: the knowledge that smartphones have harmed our kids. Or that the kids know it and now they feel trapped.

Jonathan Haidt, the author of The Anxious Generation, has a Substack page called "After Babel." On it is an essay written by a member of Gen Z. It is well worth reading, and watching the accompanying video. In short, it's about Gen Z feeling nostalgic for a time they never knew. The video is from 1999 when a senior recorded his last day of high school. You can read it here: https://www.afterbabel.com/p/a-time-we-never-knew

All I can say is I'm grateful for the information I'm receiving from Haidt and others, opening my eyes to the depth of this situation. Every parent and educator needs to inform themselves on this, because we need to make a collective effort to change things. I'm on my way to making those changes, and it has renewed my purpose as a teacher.

Last Meeting

We love the Creative Writing Club because…

 

–it gives us our own time to write our stories in peace and quiet

–no one judges our writing

–we can write all the stories we want

–it gives me energy

–free cookies

–gives me a break

–challenges me to find new prompts and activities

–I get new ideas

–there is more freedom to write

–it helps me get back into my own writing

–generates more ways to think

–we discover how every writer has their own voice

 

Written May 1, 2024 by Hazel, Isabella, Gabrielle, and Ms. Sadler

 

The Bridge

 

Go and open the door

glance about

The mysterious myth of your

existence is not fragile

Take those big breaths

Find your determination

The echo of your soul

is soft, but not tender—

Like cool, wet sand

Go and open the door

The rain has stopped

Don’t beat at the walls

of your desperation

Recover the wind

What your heart speaks

is worth hearing 

Listen. Seek.

Go and open the door

Yesterday doesn’t define you

The winds of heaven—

the true colors of your life—

fly to you in an instant 

Exit the maze of perfectionism

Fall into the communion

of long-delayed realization

that the bridge leads to

amazement and admiration

5/1/2024

4:49 pm

 

Composed at the last Creative Writing Club meeting

using word tiles, a list of words the member generated,

and opening lines from other poems as fodder for creation.

“…like a sleepy baby”

I have a boy named Hector, an 8th grader, in my creative writing class this semester. He is often absent, and when he’s there he tends to sleep. I got him to write one thing so far, and the last few classes he wasn’t even present.

The writers are working on doing modern retellings of fairy tales and myths. I was not there Tuesday, but Hector was. My awesome guest teacher talked to Hector and encouraged him to write.

And write he did.

I was so surprised when I found his story “The Little Thug Who Just Needed a Hug” submitted in the draft folder. That title! It is a story about a boy who does bad things because he doesn’t feel love, his family abandons him, his grandmother dies and that lights a fire in him that can’t be extinguished. He finds a woman to talk to and tell his troubles, and when he is done he falls into her arms “like a sleepy baby”—this was the healing that was needed. Someone to listen and hold him. Heartbreaking and heartwarming at the same time.

WOW.

I shared the story with his counselor, Betty, and the social worker. They were in tears. Betty went on to read the story to nearly everyone in the front office. She also talked to Hector, not revealing I shared his story but that I had mentioned he wrote something good. Hector explained to her that some of the story was fictionalized, but some was not.

As I was walking in the hallway I heard a student call out, “Hi Ms. Sadler.” I looked over and saw it was Hector.

I can say with confidence in the past he would have just ignored me. I chalk this up to another connection made through the power of the written word and telling stories that matter.

“When you write a poem…”

After running Jim to the doctor this morning, I started thinking about what I would write today. I was contemplating whether to write a poem or share someone else’s poem.

Then this came across my Facebook feed from my friend Dana:

And then I knew I had to share a poem written by one of my students.

I previously wrote about how I put a couple of ideas in front of my intensive readers, one being “If I Were in Charge of the World.” I was giving them a chance yesterday to finish up the poem if they had not done it before break. Getting back into the swing of things can be difficult, so a little writing activity was welcome. In fact, I overheard some kids talking about how much they liked to write. 

In the class is a wonderful young man named Josue. Yes, I’m going to use his actual name. He is kind, quiet, works hard, and is friends with everyone. He doesn’t carry the middle school baggage some kids have, but he also remains a bit of a mystery. So, while other boys were writing about soccer or who they were going to harass if given the chance, Josue submitted this:

If I was the ruler of earth

I would get rid of world hunger because I don’t want my mom to keep

telling me that there are kids that have nothing to eat.

If I were to be ruler of earth,

I would try to make peace in between nuclear wars.

If I were to be ruler of earth,

I would wanna bring back extinct animals and put them on a big island and

see what they do.

If I were to be ruler of earth,

I would just want to give the world peace and that’s it.

*

I felt the gift given in this poem, told him so immediately, and thanked him for it. 

I love knowing the things that are important to this gentle soul who sits in my classroom now, but could easily fall off my radar in the future. I don’t want that to happen, and I feel the need to honor him here.

So thank you, Josue, for your vision of a world community that works. You have a part in this! Know that I see a beautiful future for you, no matter where you go or what you do. You are a peacemaker and a poet. You have much to give. 

Keep the hunger. 

Keep the focus. 

Keep on writing.

On Saying Yes, Part 3 (Finding Refuge)

On Monday I read Mary Oliver's essay called "Some Thoughts on Whitman." This is the one that brought everything together for me.

Mary focuses heavily on Leaves of Grass, spotlighting "Song of Myself," which is his most notable poem. Most people recognize these words:

I celebrate myself

And what I assume you shall assume

For every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you.

 

For years, I've looked at this poem as a celebration of the individual. And isn't that the way it is always promoted?

 

But I saw it reflective of Thich Nhat Hanh:

 

I take refuge in the Buddha.

The Buddha takes refuge in me.

 

These words Mary offered on Whitman's writing resonated for me:

 

Out-circling, interest, sympathy, empathy, transference of focus from self to all else; the merging of the lonely single self with the wondrous, never-lonely entirety.

 

Noting all these things in my journal, I came to a much needed revelation:

The practice of staying connected to everything has been calming.

I do not feel alone. That is huge.

Just a few days earlier I expressed how alone I felt. But I'm not feeling that now.

*

Yesterday I spent a few hours with Jim at the cancer center while he got his chemo. Last time I was there, I felt stressed and alien. I looked at other people there, listened to them, and felt I was in a strange lonely world. 

But yesterday was totally different. I felt the healing environment. I felt connected to the people there, not separated. The people we communicated with were positive and alive and present. 

 

And it didn't feel lonely.

I've let this experience in, which is what I needed to do.

*

Mary concludes her comments about Whitman with this:

Brawn and spirit, we are built of light and God is within us.

If I have to say anything about the moment I am living in, it is that. 

 

Unifying the light and dark is the best way I can describe it. 

 

Scared and lonely has no place in the refuge of God.

Without judgment or avoidance, I say a clear and resounding YES to this calling, this emergence, this never-lonely entirety.

Don’t Waste Your Life (On Saying Yes, Part 2)

On Saturday morning I went for my biweekly massage. While I was there, I realized a couple of things, one being that I need to reread Thich Nhat Hanh's book Being Peace. I first read this in 1992, bit by bit, and have returned to parts of it many times. This time I knew I had to read all the way through.

 

After I returned home, I got right on it. It wasn't long before I wrote this in my journal:

 

I have already started reading and my eyes are opening. 

I'm realizing just how much I've let the current circumstances give me "permission" to be a bitch.

I knew it felt wrong. But it was easier.

Thay (his nickname) suggests doing "gathas" -- four lines that help you focus. Here is an example:

Breathing in, I calm my body.

Breathing out, I smile.

Dwelling in the present moment

I know this is a wonderful moment.

Thay is very big on smiling, focusing on breath, and being aware of suffering. 

It is the last one that has had the most impact on me. 

This is the thing I turn away from consistently. I ignore it and focus on other things. But it is always there and by the time I finished the book, I knew it was the thing I've been missing for a very long time.

I am now practicing my oneness with suffering--my own and others. I now can see more clearly how much impact this has on me, and how healing it can be. It brings peace.

Thay mentions that in every Buddhist monastery they have an 8 line poem posted. It ends with the words "Don't waste your life." I cannot waste this opportunity for growth.

 

*

Sunday morning I read Mary Oliver's essay on Poe, entitled "The Bright Eyes of Eleanora: 

Poe's Dream of Recapturing the Impossible."

My first thought with the word "impossible" is that it is possible to ignore the suffering, but not possible to escape it. On page 91, Mary expresses this perfectly in relation to Poe:

We do not think of it every day, but we will never forget it: the beloved shall grow old, or ill, and be taken away finally. No matter how ferociously we fight, how tenderly we love, how bitterly we argue, how persuasively we berate the universe, how cunningly we hide, this is what shall happen. In the wide circles of timelessness, everything material and temporal will fail, including the manifestation of the beloved. In this universe we are given two gifts: the ability to love, and the ability to ask questions. Which are, at the same time, the fires that warm us and scorch us. This is Poe's real story. As it is ours. And this is why we honor him, why we are fascinated far past the simple narratives. 

He writes about our own inescapable destiny.

Wow.

If that doesn't make you cry, nothing will!

 

*

This connected back to reading Being Peace. The suffering is around us. Impermanence is the law. 

We share an inescapable destiny. We can be in the moment. Smile. Breathe. Love.

We can be One.

And this was the takeaway -- one with everything. 

One with the minor irritations.

One with nature.

One with fear.

One with joy.

One with worry.

One with the Sacred.

 

I am nature and nature is me.

I am joy and joy is me.

I am the universe and the universe is me.

 

No matter what comes up, I apply this non-duality.

 

I am cleaning the pan. The pan is cleaning me.

I am listening to music. The music is listening to me.

I am my orchid. The orchid is me.

 

 I have to record this today so I may refer right back to it at any time. 

*

Mary ends her essay on Poe saying his words and valor are all he had. She ends by referring to a character in one of his stories, rushing forward and battering hopelessly against incomprehensibly, 

with frail fists, with "the wild courage of despair."

I feel for Poe and his characters.

But I don't want that to be me.

I've had enough of that already.

So I will live these words from Thay instead:

 

Writing Power

Yesterday being the day before spring break, I decided to have my intensive readers do some creative writing. I put two Judith Viorst poems in front of them:  “What are You Mad About? What are You Glad About?” and “If I Were in Charge of the World.” All 18 of them dove right in and got to writing their own versions. The boys would speak out loud as they wrote:

“If I was in charge I’d drop 80 polar bears into China…” and other typical 12-year-old boy stuff. They were laughing and giggling like evil geniuses. It was a sight to behold.

The girls were different. They focused in quietly, each taking a slightly different approach. The first one to walk up to me with a finished product was a girl that has a lot of behavior issues. She isn’t even allowed to leave the classroom without an escort. I have no idea what all her infractions are, and I have seen the good and the bad sides of her.

On this day, she had been rather quiet and self-contained: none of the snark I sometimes get with her. She walked up to me and quietly handed me her poem. (I have typed out below for easier reading.)

If I Could Change The World

I’d paint the world gray.

my message to you “It isn’t

easy to pretend to be happy & 

it’s okay to not be okay.”

I just want to be away

from everything. I’m glad

I’m doing better in school &

my attitude is getting better.

That I’m losing myself & somebody

again. I feel hurt. I wake up

so heavy-hearted it feels as if

I’m stuck in a deep hole. I’ll say

yes to everybody. I love seeing

people happy. Putting others before me 🩷.

I get the bare minimum, but life

isn’t fair or easy. I feel as if I’m in a

hole I feel alone but as I’m probably

not alone. I’m a mess but I’m just

stressed.

Maybe it was the space I was in, but I could not contain my tears. I was extremely moved by her insights and honesty. Her ability to balance the positive and the negative, and recognize what is driving her. I also am impressed by her ability to put it on the page in a way that adds meaning and purpose. I told her again she is a writer, and that she needs to be writing more. She agreed.

I don’t have but a handful of weeks left with her, but I’m hoping to find ways to keep some creative writing as a regular part of the class. This day showed me once again—young people need expression. And we need to provide a container for that to happen. 

Move

 Practicing with sound effects today as I prepare for Creative Writing class. I am providing first lines that has alliteration, assonance, and/or consonance.

Come when the nights are bright with stars

Be and believe you can leave the scars

Life calls to us beyond barriers and bars

Only move to make this place truly ours

Open (a nonet)

 I thought I had nothing left to say

For a year I sat in silence

But the river never stopped

The words were floating there

I just shrugged them off 

Now I open

Reach for them

Listen

Write