It’s been a while. And still, it feels like it’s not enough. Or, maybe I’m just avoiding. Maybe the fragments I’ve been gathering won’t be what is longed for. But, excuses aside — it’s been a while since I’ve completed any writing.

And while I haven’t finished anything, I have been observing and listening, sometimes scratching down phrases or quotations. I’ve been paying attention to the short messages, the questions from friends and former colleagues. Memories surfaced one morning and I stopped what I was doing to capture words in notes on my phone for later use:

Ghosts of the past flicker in and out of awareness. I recall the apartment garbage chute consuming artifacts – writing, letters, photos, trinkets of my past – force fed by a jealous boyfriend. I did not recognize shame’s presence in me then, and the ways that shedding connections to my own history would solidify our union and my invisibility.

More recently, a former student messaged me recounting our history together from her first day of grade 9 to graduation — the sharing of this historical memory, this unexpected ping from my phone, this shared experience brought me back to myself. I stopped, took a deep breath, and warmly smiled before I replied.

Words and memories shared can do that. But, for me right now, there are some words and memories which seem to scatter, flying this way and that, never landing, never grasping, so I leave them alone for a while.

And while I cannot find the words for myself, I give attention to the words of others — what I call close listening — for me, this is an act of love that need not be loud or obvious or grand. I listen and respond to the words and memories which are not my own.

Sometimes the quiet, elusive form of attention heals — a short text, the phrase of a question, the gentle way a message is carefully crafted can say, “ I see you. I feel for you. Share your suffering with me”.

Meanwhile questions in conversation, the delicate probes which come close to the wound, remind us of love; these words test the solidity of one’s state while the fiercer more direct questions might shake us into shared acknowledgment that we are not alone. There is a selflessness in the questions that reveal an interest, that show attention to the trajectory of our lives.

I’ve been entirely immersed in my life as a teacher until now. But that trajectory has shifted, and as I wait and hope for the words, the world carries on — school resumed without me. It might be a while before I am myself again and, in this retirement, find the words.

We had participated in a three day workshop retreat during the summer months, had written lesson plans for grade 9 English, had engaged in many workshops about CRRP and equity and still, we missed the onramp. Of course, we were speeding, trying to have our group of diverse educators understand and engage in what we had created for students, modelling the lesson for them. Of course, we condensed and we scrambled and we delivered. Because that is what we do when we are pressed to meet expectations and old conditioning surfaces.

“If I had to do this in class, I would have frozen or refused. This terrifies me.” This science coach, an educator skilled in their use of technology, with multiple modes of representation, and student-centred assessment practices bravely shared his experience in school. I felt my anxiety about the presentation, the rush to demonstrate as much as possible in a short period of time, transform to a realization; I didn’t consider how this might harm students who struggle with writing. I didn’t consider how this task might have multiple entry points for students to gain confidence in writing. My face fell immediately realizing my significant error and I knew why I made that mistake – the default program, the production treadmill held me. I knew in that moment, I needed to apologize, repair, and slow down.

Moments like these stay with me: the abrupt internal correction, or momentary embarassment which comes with awareness of self, of mistakes. They hang around the edges of thought as the inner critic scolds over and over again.

And it happened again yesterday. A casual stroll past a desk and connecting with a student, saying that we should talk about his memoir, and he turned looking despondent and said, “We already did that last week.” I kept moving and nodded, “oh yes, I’m sorry.” You see, I was rushing. Of course, I was rushing. I had to deliver an assembly to 254 grade 10s in the next period, and I didn’t know if the projector in the auditorium would work, and I had to set up for lunch time lessons, and the list that justifies the rushing never ends. But, that connection with that student in that moment felt compromised. And that feeling persists today. Rushing requires undoing.

The Consequence of Weather (April 9, 2023) 

Another storm, another eruption cracking intermittent peace,

a signal of the altered and unalterable.

“No grace allowed?”, I wonder, “now?”

“No”, not for me, the response implies.

“Nor forgiveness, nor wondering how it could be

in the midst of seizure, of fracture,

with a climate change here, now and forever, 

in this house, in me?”

I hear the learned say that “no poem should be accusatory”.

Yet, here I am,

holding the consequence of weather,

feeling responsibility for the rubble at this altar,

after the explosion in you, again — it’s me, of course, it’s me.

The rise and fall, this patterned history

exhausts potential energy and space for growth.

“Was there really any there?”I wonder now, if ever,

or is this just the land where I must feel at home with weather.

You might not know this, but I’ve tried surfing, several times in fact. I did this my first year at Jacksonville University in Florida at the beach with my then boyfriend from Virginia. I know; it’s a complex and long story — not the story that I want to tell here, on this last day of March.

The story about surfing that I want to tell happened in a book that I’m reading, a book that I’m in love with. Black Cake by Charmaine Wilkerson captivated me from the first short chapter and I have savoured my time with it, moving forward slowly piece by piece, then cycling back to ensure I have soaked in all the details. During our silent reading at the beginning of class, I took in this section of the story; Eleanor Bennett, the Black mother of two, learns to surf and her son, Byron recalls her lessons.

They had always gotten stares, the little black kid and his towering mother, leaning into their surboards in an era when many Angelenos believed the sport had been invented by blonde men.

“Some people think surfing is a relationship with the sea,” his mother said one day, when Byron was struggling in the water. “but surfing is really a relationship between you and yourself. The sea is going to do whatever it wants.” She winked.

“What you need to do, Byron, is know who you are, and where you are at all times. This is about you, finding and keeping your center. This is how you take on a wave. The you might find that you need to practice more, or there’s a storm swell coming in, or the wave is simply too much for you. You might even decide that you’re just not cut out for the surfing and that’s all right, too. But you cannot know which of these is true unless you go out there with your head in the right place.” This was true of surfing and it was true of life, his ma said.

I tried to surf. I didn’t find my centre. The wave found me and sent me to the ocean floor, head first, mouth open. I experienced a relationship with the sand because my head was not in the right place. Unfortunately, this lesson often takes a long time.

Surfing wisdom arrived too late for me as the waves of family and colleagues and friends. I haven’t always had my head “in the right place”. But the book arrived exactly when I needed it.

Last weekend I listened with enthusiasm to the Human Restoration Project podcast with Ontario based teacher, Miss Elmi. She inspired me as I began dreaming of similar lessons in my English classroom.

You really should listen to the whole episode, but for now, here’s part of the website description:

Creating spaces of love, joy, and learning toward human flourishing.

It only takes a few seconds on Hanaa Elmi’s Twitter timeline for even the most oblivious observer like myself to know that what she is doing is magical. One post from February details several images of student contributions from reflections on Stone Soup and other related readings – child’s handwriting draws your eye to the center of each poster – We take care of each other by…We take care of water by…We take care of the Earth by… – student drawings and reflections surrounding those prompts create the shared understanding – Hanaa also captures “Our Ideas” in the margins – have a spirit of ubuntu (I am because we are), she writes, Be like the Water Walkers, Love water!

Another series of images shows her young students exploring questions like “What’s the heart of the story? What do you think the author wants us to know in our minds & hearts as a reader?”, one student reply reads “Ms. I think the heart of the story is that anger is okay and normal. We just have to breathe.”

In one part of the interview, something she said just punched me in the gut; I remember listening, then bending over a bit, and letting out an audible “ugh”. She grew up in the same city as me, the same province as me, and she could have been one of my students. Yet, on this American podcast, she said, she “felt like a trespasser” in her own schools. She could go days without a teacher acknowledging her, without speaking to her. This word — trespasser — physically moved me.

And, this might not seem connected at all, but when we had to cancel our school equity group for teachers and I heard complaints about “inconsistency” and the idea that we “aren’t doing anything”, I thought about the many times the lessons have come to me unscripted. It feels more like a way of moving through the world, a refusal to allow othering, and the willingness to feel the “punch to the gut” while continuing the deeper “archeology of the self” (Dr. Yolanda Sealey-Ruiz).

I read Amanda’s post about a writing protocol and laughed out loud because my grade 9 class had just used that exact same protocol facilitated by our incredible teacher librarian, Cathy MacKechnie that exact day!

Three years ago, Cathy ran this protocol for me with my class of grade 12s and many teachers cycle through the library when she offers to run this activity. Cathy always shares the story of the workshop where she learned by having to share her own writing, not feeling like a writer, admitting to the emotional vulnerability of reading your own writing out loud. And yet, she tells them, that this structured approach brought her closer to an understanding of writing and editing.

But, the way that Amanda did this with her own writing intrigued me. I’d not done this work of vulnerability with them using this structured approach. While, I often share my writing with students or write in front of them, I have yet to do this in this way. And now it’s something I think I should do.

When we sharing and learning together, both in the classroom and outside the classroom in this space for writing teachers, we learn so much that we take back to our classrooms.

So, now I’m inspired and might choose something that was “meant to be funny” too!

I wrote alongside students.

Writing prompt #20:

“Reflect on the concept of silence. What symbols or expressions are used around the idea of silence. Write or draw or list all of the thoughts that come to mind. Build on the ideas.”

• in conversation
• lack of sound/voice
• absence of human interference in nature
• thoughts
• stifled
• shhhh
• peace
• mouth covered
• finger to lips
• is absolute silence even possible?

Poem (in draft):

Silence Is

Silence is that feeling which mists upwards, the forest floor dabbing dew gently on the hairs of your skin.

It is that time when you share grief to shifting bodies with downcast eyes.

Sometimes, it is a swell, a wave holding warmth in place while eyes connect.

Maybe, silence is interbeing.

Silence is stretched time and broken distance, evidence of fracture.

It is a belly fire smoldering and smoking waiting for an escape route.

Silence is a finger to lips, a “shshhhh” sound saying, you should stop.

Sometimes, it looks like compliance.

Maybe silence is a language of emotions.

Reading Words

The classroom phone rang and I picked it up. She wanted to know if I had given a student the book to read. I shared the history, the complicated nature of supporting readers, and indicated that she sought approval from home.

“Well, we’ll see about that when I call them.”

Disdain hung on those words as I hung up the phone. I felt a sudden rush of adrenaline course through my veins. After processing, I reached out and booked a call with her mother. She vaguely recalled the conversation with her daughter but was not concerned because in her words, “She is a mature reader. She knows how to navigate the words.”

Texting Words

I called and we chatted, the phone on speaker so everyone in the family around the dinner table could participate and share. I thought this was considerate and thoughtful. And then the text came, the one meant for someone else reporting on the reception of the phone call; it was not good.

“Oops. I think you meant this for someone else.”

A day passed and more words were thrown, a mixture of accusation and finality. I wrote a reply and keep it in drafts. Days passed and I wrote another reply with a different tone. More days pass as I waffle between retaliation and resignation. More than a few weeks have passed but those words remain lodged under my left ribcage hindering breath.

Walking Words

We walked right after dinner. We often just walk without talking, and I enjoy this. When I walk or run, I listen to my body and wait for it to send me some wisdom. Poems often arise when I’m outside moving and it feels like a breeze of words just blow through me. I capture them when I can. I’ve lost many over the years, but today, I realized something simple and wrote it on a sticky note to remind me.

It’s Sunday, so I’m anxious (again) thinking an never quite fulfilling everything I hoped and planned in my head. Yet, I have found this useful as students wind up with more opportunities to shape the lessons with me. For now, I’ve decided to use my many years of experience to create a Survival Guide for Teachers.

Layering

Stuff: Bring a few extra items of clothing for those days when the temperature dips below comfortable, or the sweat stains your shirt enough that you become embarassed as well as anxious.

People: Treat students and parents and other teachers like onions. If you pull too hard on a layer, it might break. Instead add water, give time and the warmth of love until the layers release. Do this for yourself too.

Standing

Stuff: Secure a stand up desk or podium and place it in the center of the classroom. Make it a place for anyone in the room and allow this to be a place for movement and celebration.

People: Know what you stand for. Write it down. Think about this every day and every night. Learn more and rewite it. Think about it when you plan and when you talk with students. Remember that the politics of education are capital “H”, Human. You’ll need this when someone accuses you of being “leftist”.

Releasing

Stuff: Get rid of binders, handouts, and unrealistic expectations for your lessons or yourself.

People: Trust students who are curious humans and have access to more information than ever before. Release the traditional expectations of education and rewrite this survival guide.

Afterwards,

he says that he is not who he was.

This pierces,

until I acknowledge

none of us stay immutable;

then, I realize I am not

who I was before.

Afterwards,

I am no longer the same.

Strange me greeting a strange you.

Who was this thief,

who appeared in the basement

somewhere between boy and man,

snatched the spirit,

leaving both of us changed?

Scene 1: In a high school English Office, five teachers gather chatting and eating their bagged lunches.

“My son came home last night and was telling me all the things he’s good at.”

Director’s note: In this cramped, small office, teachers regularly gather and share stories of family life. Neil, the new colleague who had been teaching in Korea for years, recently came back to Canada. In this moment, he shares a story about his sixteen year old son.

“He said he is a really good listener. He thinks he could be a party host, but he would like to do it because he doesn’t like parties, but he’d be good at it anyway.”

Director’s note: The teachers laugh and smile.

“He also said that he’s really good at resolving disputes. And then said, ‘oh, and I should probably tell you that I nearly got in a fight today at school’ before he tried walking away.”

Director’s note: The teachers laugh lounder. One teacher is curious and asks for more information.

“So, what did you say to your son?”

“I listened and told him ‘that’s great!'”

“Pile on the praise! Give him lots, because the world will look after the creation of self doubt.”

Director’s note: A hum of acknowledgement followed and a few heads nodded.

Scene 2: A group of grade 9 students assess themselves on a rubric for a personal essay or memoir. The teacher moves around the room, desks in groups of four.

“Why did you give yourself this grade on the self-assessment of your writing?”

“Cause that’s what I always get in other classes.”

“But, you’re growing and learning all the time, so this is probably better, right?”

Director’s note: The student shrugs, and looks down at his desk full of doubt. Praise carried the teacher from lunch through the rest of the day.

The Idea Is Better Than the Truth – Writing Alongside (From Linda Rief’s The Quickwrite Handbook)

“Learning is this fluid thing, it’s social it’s dynamic – your background, your identity are factors that contribute to your learning.”

“Learning is heavily based on a social dynamic and experiences.” Eric Cross from The Science of Reading Podcast

I had this idea for a writing lesson in the shower then tried to hold it in my head until I got to school. Of course, I didn’t write it down and the usual important coversations with colleagues took my brain away from the plan to create the lesson. But, thankfully, I didn’t lose it entirely. Instead, I rushed quickly preparing the lesson with seven minutes to go before the bell – phew!

Here’s the idea:

Create a series of short scenarios with emotions and circumstances written in large print on pieces of paper. Students in small groups randomly draw a scenario, keep it secret from the rest of the class and write a paragraph that shows without telling.

Here’s one example of a scenario:

And here’s another:

I wanted them to show the emotion and circumstance without using any of the words or even synonyms for the words. They worked with a partner or in a small group and then I read their paragraph to the rest of the class. Other students had to guess the emotion and circumstances.

Correct guesses meant they had succeeded in giving enough description or dialogue to show without telling.

And that’s when the markers came out.

“I’m marking up your face to show you…” I heard from across the room combined with peels of laughter and joy. I assured them it would wash off and then helped them to use dialogue in their paragraph. I stopped by a group of girls who had the first prompt and we talked about the evidence that someone is your best friend.

“Sleepovers!”

“Sitting at lunch with them every day for the past year.”

We talked about the look on a sad person’s face and how they walk and breathe. And when they walked out of the room, it struck me that I was showing these grade 9s how to struggle a bit together, and that writing stories can be joyful.

Something has changed. I mean, radically changed in my grade 9 class.

Rather than provide a history, I’ll share something that happened today which seemed to fix student comprehension of paragraphs. And it also helped them think about prefixes.

Here’s the lesson:

With your table group, create a poster using online research to demonstrate knowledge required for paragraph writing in narratives.

Here’s what happened:

They shared rules discovered: a topic sentence, a concluding sentence, and a few other rules which were easy to dispute when we talked about it. All they needed to do was open the books they were reading to realize that not every paragraph in a narrative has a topic and concluding sentence. They crossed out those rules.

And then this idea of “unity and coherence” was raised by one student. I said, “Let’s just figure out unity first.”

So I moved to the board and wrote down the word

“Tell me everyword you know that looks or sounds like the word, unity”.

universe (Marvel)

United (Manchester)

unit (math)

university (“my sister goes there!”)

unicorn

“Unicorn! Tell me about a unicorn!” They all had their hands up to their foreheads immitating the mythological horse when a student said, “the prefix uni must be one, because a unicorn has one horn.” We then back tracked through the words to see the pattern.

They decided we didn’t need a poster to understand the rules of a paragraph. They came together and collaboratively decided that paragraphs just needed the ideas and thinking to be connected — to be as one.

I was expecting the text and photo around the time they arrived, but I wasn’t expecting my reaction. I knew it would be evidence of the gentle passing of our twelve year old Apricot Standard Poodle, Fergie (nod to the Duchess) and I thought the planning would leave me prepared.

Her physical deterioration had began six months prior. We noticed a diminishing, typical of age. We took her on the ususal walks which gradually slowed until one day she started limping. Just her right leg, but it was clear that she was in pain. We speculated: a pulled muscle? Maybe it happened at the dog park during a ball throwing session? Maybe she got a bit too enthusiastic for her age?

So, we shortened the walks, and threw the ball less frequently. But, nothing worked.

The vet took xrays and delivered the news. “I’m so sorry, but it’s bone cancer. Advanced too. It’s really spread.” We talked about options, but the way forward was clear. Amputation was not an option. We did not want her to suffer. A date for euthenasia was planned.

Then remarkably, she improved and as the scheduled day neared, we felt like we were putting our seemingly healthy dog to sleep prematurely. We cancelled promptly, and continued enjoying our senior dog and her new little brother.

That is, until her second last day. (I still shudder a bit with the memory, full of guilt about her ending.)

A few weeks after we canceled the vet visit. Duke, the puppy, jumped down from the sofa and Fergie followed. I saw her jump, tail up and wagging, and I saw her fall, suddenly seeming to break in two. Her back fractured in the middle and her tail end dropped to the floor. Eyes filled with panic darted up at me as she struggled to right herself.

Her hind end was paralyzed.

The shock of the moment gave us strength to lift her weighty body from the floor to her soft bed and we comforted her as she panted anxiously. George rushed to call the vet, but it was late, too late for immediate action, so she would need to spend the night on her bed sleeping away from us for the first time in her life. The emergency line took our call and the euthenasia was planned for the next day.

I rose and dressed for school, knowing that George would be taking her to the vet while I was teaching. I kissed her where she lay, exactly where we had placed her the night before. I was going to work, so I prepared and left without crying.

“Text me to let me know when she’s gone. I want to know she is no longer in pain.”

Then the picture arrived. George mustering a smile through tears, Fergie looking longingly up into his eyes for reassurance.

I was expecting it.

I thought I was prepared.

But even writing about this now, I realize we can never be prepared to lose what we have loved.

Which is why I negotiate terms,

digging for meaning, reason,

some logic where mostly wounds

seep, spilling over the container.

Which is why I read and doubt,

tapping out a way toward resolution

of those words not my own.

Which is why I am never settled,

spinning some storied cloth

for comfort in understanding another.

Which is why I still write.

(Inspired by Amanda Potts’ post here: https://persistenceandpedagogy.com/2023/03/17/parking-sol23-17-31/)

“Perchance to dream…”

I didn’t sleep well last night. Around 1am, our bedroom door swung open and startled me out of my dream. I don’t remember the dream now, but it was unsettling and this spilled over into my wakeful tossing which faciliatated some anxious weaving of stories which kept me awake for a few hours.

“Just stop”, I finally told myself, and then decided to soften the accusations and practice some relaxation and meditation.

At 1pm, my husband and I moved the ottoman, laid out the yoga mats and began our weekend workout. Part way through our two minute plank, I glanced over at the sofa, perpendicular to my straining body, and noticed that the dog was already breathing heavily, his paws dangling off the edge of the sofa twitching slightly.

Damn, I thought. If only I could plop down anywhere and be asleep within a minute.

I think my dog might just be a reincarnation of some spirit guide meant to show me how to live. He’s always excited to see everyone, no matter who they might be, or what they might have done; everyone is a potential friend. He eats when he is hungry, sleeps when he is tired, and dreams of repeating the same walk everyday with a bounce in his step and a wag of his tail.