#SOL16 Day 7

Music is your own experience, your thoughts, your wisdom.  If you don’t live it, it won’t come out of your horn.  They teach you there’s a boundary line to music. But man, there’s no boundary line to art. ~ Charlie Parker

I wish I were a jazz musician.  You see I played the string bass in high school and college and in groups at church. I loved it.  Arthritic knees and hands put a damper on my bass playing career though. I played Bach, Handel, Vivaldi, and Mozart in string ensembles and orchestras. I love Baroque music and listen to it often as I work. But “classical” music has a particular form; you know what is coming; it is safe, and I have always played it safe.

My son is a jazz musician.  Since the sixth grade he has been improvising – creating melodies from things he has heard or just from his head.  I am in awe.  I can’t do that. If it isn’t written on the page, I can’t play it.  I want to be able to swing and bebop, cakewalk and bossa nova.  I want to let go and be cool like Armstrong and Coltrane, Ellington and Gillespie. I can only dream.

Yet, what are the implications of Charlie Parker’s quote when it comes to writing?  Am I forcing my students to be “classical” when they want to be “jazz”?  Am I teaching them there is a boundary line?  Am I preventing them from creating art?  What about my own writing – am I playing it too safe? Starting this blog and taking on this “slicing” challenge is getting me out of my comfort zone.  Maybe I am moving from “classical” to “jazz” with little baby steps. I have a long way to go until I am “cool” though.

What Parker said about music can also be applied to writing. Writing is your own experience, thoughts, wisdom.  If you don’t live it (write every day) it would come out of your pen onto the paper.  There are no boundaries when it comes to where you can take your writing!

#SOL16 Day 6

We’re All Works of Art in Progress ~ Carmen Delle Orefice

In my 7th grade religion class we often begin class with a three minute retreat sponsored by the publisher of our text, Loyola Press. A couple of weeks ago our retreat was entitled “A Work in Progress.”  It really got me thinking about my students, others I meet each day, and myself.  The premise of the retreat is that “there is more to life than the present moment”, that we need to “be patient with what feels incomplete”, and that as long as we cooperate with God’s plan we can be assured that He is at work in us and through us and His good work will continue.

Now whether you are a believer or not, the essential question is one we can all benefit from.

“What changes do I notice in myself when I remember that other people are also works in progress?”

Thinking about this question led me to questions of my own.

If I am a continuous work in progress, do I allow myself to be fluid?

       How about my students or others I interact with?

Am I gentle with myself?

        Am I always gentle with my students? My colleagues?

Are my thinking and beliefs too rigid to allow that change and growth?

        How do I encourage that change and growth in my students?

What holds me back from accepting that change?

        What is holding my students back?

Am I afraid? Are they?

So as I embark on this new week of school tomorrow I am going to keep that thought in my head, “We’re all Works of Art in Progress.”  I am going to try very hard to be gentler with myself but more importantly with my students.  When I look at each one of them I want to remember that the child/adolescent they are today is not who they will be tomorrow, or the next day, or a year from now, or ten years from now.  My job is to help them find out a little bit more about the person they are today and help them evolve into the best person they can be as they continue working on their masterpieces.

 

 

 

 

#SOL Day 5

The art of writing is the art of discovering what you believe. ~ Gustave Flaubert

I spent the morning with my writing project friends at PAWLP.  I wasn’t able to attend the last continuity Saturday, so I was really excited to be there today. I can’t begin to tell you how inspired I am each time I sit at the table with this incredible group of writers.  I am in awe at the amazing things going on in the classrooms of these teachers.  I learn something new every time I am with them.

I envy the retired teachers who have more time  to do consulting work and to write. Listening to them describe the work they are doing makes me want to write more, read more, and learn more about literacy.

Each time we meet the group changes.  Members come and go as their lives allow. Some are regulars who are at almost every continuity Saturday and other PAWLP events. Others drop in several times over the course of a school year.  Still others haven’t been to a PAWLP event in years and are finding their way back to the Writing Project.

Today we welcomed a new assistant director to the fold.  Each of us described for her what the writing project means to us. For me becoming a Writing Project Fellow has been life changing.  It has given me the courage to share my writing beyond an audience of one.  It has meant meeting new people, learning new things, and being part of something bigger.

As each person around the table shared one theme became evident. The Writing Project is a safe place for people who share the same philosophy of writing and literacy to meet, discuss, explain, present, and share. No matter how long you have been away you can always go home, and know that you will be welcomed as if they saw you yesterday.

#SOL16 Day 4

To make a difference in someone’s life you don’t have to be brilliant, rich, beautiful or perfect. You just have to care.” ~Mandy Hale

Reading Tricia Ebarvia’s post yesterday got me thinking. Sr. Roseathea, my music teacher in elementary school, planted the seed of the love of music in my heart and soul.  I can remember the shows performed on that little stage like it was yesterday.  When she let us sing “Joy to the World” (the Jeremiah was a bullfrog version) I was stunned that a nun could be so cool!  She awakened in me a desire to create music but more importantly a desire to share music.  Thus started my journey (right there in the fourth grade) to becoming a music teacher – a career that lasted 23 years.  

After I became a music teacher and started putting on shows of my own, I had a revelation. The work was very difficult, but I loved it.  There was so much stress leading up to show night.  It was a challenge to get over 200 kids, grades kindergarten to eighth, on stage in the right places, saying the correct lines, and singing with enthusiasm. We rehearsed and rehearsed and rehearsed until finally it was the night of the show.  That is when I got to look up at those precious faces staring at me for direction.  When the music began I was usually so full of emotion that my eyes almost overflowed.  I was so proud of those innocent voices. In my eyes, every show night was just perfect.

I realized just how hard Sr. Roseathea worked with such little recognition. I realized that she didn’t do it for the recognition.  She did it because she loved music, and she cared about her students. I decided that she needed to know how my life turned out.  A couple of years ago, I tracked her down and sent her a thank you card. I told her how my musical life evolved after eighth grade and what an impact she had on my life.  She returned my note with a note of her own telling me she learned as much from her students as she hoped they learned from her.  I understood exactly what she meant.

#SOL16 Day 3

Slow down and enjoy life. It’s not only the scenery you miss by going to fast – you also miss the sense of where you are going and why. ~ Eddie Cantor

Tailgaters are missing out on life!  By tailgaters I don’t mean the fun-loving, partying people at sporting events and concerts.  Those people are living!  No, I mean the people who drive so closely behind you that you can almost make out the coffee stain on their shirt in your rear-view mirror.  Why are they in such a hurry?  Don’t they know what they are missing?

This morning on my way to work, I had a car on my tail.  At first I was really annoyed.  Didn’t they see the speed limit sign – 25 mph – 15 around the curve? I decided that I was not speeding up for anyone.  You see, I was taking the “short cut” to work.  It is a short length of winding road that gives me about a minute’s peacefulness each morning. The beauty of the surroundings coupled with the classical music station produce a calmness within me that I try to carry throughout my day.

I began to feel sorry for the speeding demon behind me.  Just look at what she was missing.  Did she see the birds playing chase or the mist rising up from the field?  Did she know that a stream gently winds it way under the road and travels miles from here?  How could she not see the cresent moon peaking out from behind the shifting clouds? Did she notice the broken branches on the trees – some completely off – others precarioulsy hanging down? Did she know that a CSA farm was nestled behind those trees?  It is so well hidden that you may just miss the stone driveway. No, she probably did not see any of those things because she was too busy looking at my braking tail lights and ranting about how “slow” I was driving.

So to my tailgating “friend” I send a wish for you.  My wish is that you slow down and take the opportunity to look closer at what the “short cut” has to offer or else take the long way around and stop ruining my morning minute.

Day 2 #SOL16

An investment in knowledge pays the best interest. ~ Benjamin Franklin

 

It is 4:13 PM, and I am still circling the office park looking for the correct building. I have a 4:15 appointment with a new allergist, and I am feeling just a little stressed.  I find Building M, zip into a parking space, and power-walk  to the office door.  The receptionist greets me with a clipboard and a request to see the usual – my photo id, insurance card, and payment.  I sit down to complete the papers before me, and I am distracted by voices coming from a loft office, CNN on the TV, and the doctor and nurses moving in and out of the room.  I am not sure how I am feeling about this new office and new doctor.

After a few minutes the doctor calls me back to his office to discuss my current ailment and take my medical history. As I answer his questions, my eyes scan the massive desk before me.  I am drawn to a book of quotes by Benjamin Franklin that sits atop a pile of medical magazines.  It is the same book of quotes by BF that I own! (As you read more of my blog entires you will see that I LOVE quotes!)  Well, if this doctor has such wonderful taste in reading material, he must be good, I thought.

My visit continues in an examining room. Once all the necessities are completed, I am again find myself in the doctor’s office to discuss the next steps and a plan of action.  While waiting for him to return, I notice something that I hadn’t noticed before.  There on his wall were many of the Franklin quotes written and illustrated by a child. Now I am totally convinced that this is the perfect doc for me.  How can I go wrong with someone who obviously values quotable words and the works of children?

Not all treasure is silver or gold. ~ Captain Jack Sparrow

My mother’s gold cross is gone, and I am sick about it on many levels.

For as long as I can remember my mother wore that beautiful gold cross around her neck every day.  It was a gift from her father on his return from one of his many trips to his homeland, Italy.

 To my mother, the cross was a connection to her father who died nearly 45 years ago.

To me, it was an outward sign of my mother’s great faith.

To one of her visiting aides, it was money – something they could pawn or melt down for cash.

I am sick that I will not be the recipient of that cross someday.  As the oldest daughter, I had my eye on that one piece of jewelry to claim as my own once my mom was no longer with us.  I could see myself wearing that cross and feeling a special connection to my mother and grandfather.

I am sick that a person we paid to help my mom, while she waited for a room in an assisted living facility, felt the right to help herself to that cross along with other jewelry, gift cards, and a little cash. How low can you be? How desparate? How can you sleep at night knowing you stole from a woman suffering with dementia? I don’t understand.

I am sick that all the good jewelry is gone, and my siblings and I will not have the opportunity to pass it down to our children or grandchildren someday. That honor has been stolen from us.

As time passes, the sick feeling in the pit of my stomach is slowly being replaced with sadness and then resignation.  I know that in the grand scheme of life the jewelry was not really that important. Although each piece evoked a particular memory, the memories we hold in our hearts can never be stolen.