Here is a nice thought for the evening and beyond. I am sure we can relate to this many days. What do we remember about someone or something long past? Personally, I give it a lot of thought. It is so interesting what quiet time conjures up and who it conjures up.
Last night, just before I went to bed, I was watching the news from one of the Spokane TV stations. Washington State completed an audit for public education. One of the conclusions was that simply moving 1%of funding from central offices and administration would add about 1000 classroom teachers states-wide. I am not suggesting this could be done across the board in every jurisdiction but it is food for thought. What if we moved 10% from school administration and central office administration? What would the benefits be? Right off the top of my head I thought of additional classroom teachers and effective professional learning could be undertaken.
Will this even be considered or are we merely protecting an antiquated and bloated status quo?
I am working on the World Cafe summaries from several months ago trying to find software to organize, analyze, and present the data in a meaningful way. The March 17, 2012 event yielded what was very close to a haiku. I massaged it a bit this morning and came up with the following:
schooling as a place
can just be interrupting
learning for children.
It sounds a bit like Mark Twain.
Nothing worth its salt comes easy. I enjoy Wendell Berry and his reminders that the world is a better place if we live in it fully in the moment and mindful of this very moment and place.
If we will have the wisdom to survive,
to stand like slow-growing trees
on a ruined place, renewing, enriching it,
if we make our seasons welcome here,
asking not too much of earth or heaven,
then a long time after we are dead
the lives our lives prepare will live
here, their houses strongly placed
upon the valley sides, fields and gardens
rich in the windows. The river will run
clear, as we will never know it,
and over it, birdsong like a canopy.
On the levels of the hills will be
green meadows, stock bells in noon shade.
On the steeps where greed and ignorance
cut down
the old forest, an old forest will stand,
its rich leaf-fall drifting its roots.
The veins of forgotten springs will have
opened..
Families will be singing in their fields.
In the voices they will hear a music
risen out of the ground. They will take
nothing from the ground they will not
return,
whatever the grief at parting. Memory,
native to this valley, will spread over it
like a grove, and memory will grow
into a legend, legend into song, song
into sacrament. The abundance of this
place,
the songs of its people and its birds,
will be health and wisdom and indwelling
light. This is no paradisal dream.
Its hardship is its possibilities.
─Wendell Berry
When we discussed this poem, students understood that success is not always an easy journey. Some important aspects are the hard work and disappointments along the way. The word and phrase that caught their attention was “This is no paradisal dream. Its hardship is its possibilities.
I woke this morning
to several truths;
honouring
respecting
diversity
in wholeness
in parts
healing
wisdom
meaning
makes us stronger
me stronger
without weakening.
Community
thrives
each person
and truths
named
nurtured
watered
fed
valued
appreciated
strengthened
in healthy diversity.
with healthy diversity.
In a world full of busyness and artificial flavouring for the day, this is a solid message of what brings peace to each of our lives. Slow down, you move to0 fast. Sounds like a song I heard somewhere.
To begin the day in a quieter, peaceful, and wiser place, I meditate each morning. .Elizabeth Myhr commented about creativity in her writing. She “does not jump into creativity. Creativity bumps into her on its way through the world.” As I sat, I realized I was writing poetry in my mind. Words, phrases, and images were floating in a stream. I recognized I felt calmer and quieter in those moments.
Francesca Zelnick offered advice in a recent post. She suggested, when ideas emerge or bump up against me as I move through life, write them down. I did and edited later. Here is the product.
Sit quietly,
5:30
AM.
Can’t sleep
wait
listen
pay attention
be patient
meditate
contemplate
focus on breath.
Gently return
to a quiet space
solitude
like a river
single words
phrases form
metaphors arise
images appear
in the current.
Discover a gentle smile
on the corners of lips
face softens.
Fresh day
creates space
for voice
words observed
soul speaks
asks to be heard.
Tranquil,
bump into creative moment
Poetry written.
Enjoy!
They are really my socks. They do not fit inside of any shoes or boots I own, so, technically, they might not qualify as socks, but as slippers. On cold winter mornings, I wear them around the house. What makes them interesting? I am glad you asked.
These were Christmas gifts. Kathy’s grandmother made them for us. We always knew after the first person opened their gift from Grandma what we were each receiving that year. That part never changed. What made each year’s gift deserving of an ode, was the time and generosity sewn, crafted, or knitted into the gifts. We also wanted to know what package our gift came in that year.
Grandma was a thrifty, frugal woman, not cheap. She lived and raised children in cabins almost her entire adult life. Their isolated homestead was on the McLeod River south and west of Edson, Alberta. She worked a trap line into her 80’s with the help of children and grandchildren. She worked hard and had little in terms of material wealth, but she gave gifts made by hand and given from the heart. Part of her thrift was the packaging of each gift. I think, after several years, it became part of a game, too. She packed gifts in macaroni, spaghetti, and cereal boxes. Even the adults thrived on this part of the gift-giving. What was our gift packed in that year?
When I share Pablo Neruda’s Ode to My Socks with students, I tell this story. Children and adolescents need the figurative message made concrete. This poem is about moving life’s supposedly ordinary events to the extraordinary. Students often recount a gift given or received from the heart after my story. It moves the context of daily life forward from the ordinary, and makes it rich. Beauty is twice beauty, after all.
Mara Mori brought me
a pair of socks
which she knitted herself
with her sheepherder’s hands,
two socks as soft as rabbits.
I slipped my feet into them
as if they were two cases
knitted with threads of twilight and goatskin,
Violent socks,
my feet were two fish made of wool,
two long sharks
sea blue, shot through
by one golden thread,
two immense blackbirds,
two cannons,
my feet were honored in this way
by these heavenly socks.
They were so handsome for the first time
my feet seemed to me unacceptable
like two decrepit firemen,
firemen unworthy of that woven fire,
of those glowing socks.
Nevertheless, I resisted the sharp temptation
to save them somewhere as schoolboys
keep fireflies,
as learned men collect
sacred texts,
I resisted the mad impulse to put them
in a golden cage and each day give them
birdseed and pieces of pink melon.
Like explorers in the jungle
who hand over the very rare green deer
to the spit and eat it with remorse,
I stretched out my feet and pulled on
the magnificent socks and then my shoes.
The moral of my ode is this:
beauty is twice beauty
and what is good is doubly good
when it is a matter of two socks
made of wool in winter.
Pablo Neruda
It has been a terrific blogging journey and traffic increased, but this is a two-way stream. I follow a number of blogs and each contributed to my growth during the past 2-3 months. Marie Wetmore at http://mariewetmore.com/ nominated my site for a versatile blogger award.
I am posting a list of favourite blogs. Who are the authors and creators of my favourite blogs? What makes them versatile? Please take a moment to visit some of these sites. Thank you.
Thanks Marie Wetmore! It is an honour. I am grateful and humbled!
7 interesting things about me:
My Nominees
I acknowledge people who were role models and encouraged me in blogging as Teacher as Transformer. I am grateful for daily contributions and offerings. I shifted from an ego-driven Teacher as Transformer and began internal work. I thank each of you.
WHAT ARE YOUR FAVORITE BLOGS? COMMENT BELOW!
Observational Poems : Touching the World : Deep Underground Poetry Community.
I was just surfing and came across this poem. Mindfulness is a universal concept and is not the sole domain of Buddhists or mystics. I find it ironic that the wave of scientific theory which pushed mindfulness out of the western practice was called the Enlightenment. Who or What did it enlighten? Mindfulness and scientific thought are complementary practices which make each other whole.
As I drove to work this morning, I considered the phrase “thinking outside the box.” I wonder, “Is the most apt description for innovative or creative thinking?”
When I am inside the box can I really see outside and look around effectively? I could just be hanging on for dear life. Or, when I am outside the box, can I see inside? When I wrote my candidacy paper, I interviewed the first principal of our unique, alternative school and he provided an appropriate metaphor for innovative and creative organizations-a corral fence. I wrote the following poem and tried to capture what I think he meant.
Innovate
A fence
with railings
see in or out
allow perspective.
Flow and rhythm
information in; information out
nourish
enrich
affirm
recycle
breathe and flex.
Part of a whole
complex, yet simple
reach beyond my world
one piece of a puzzle.
Present
to our self
to the world.
Never box me in.
This fit with a song I heard by Ben Harper called With my Own Two Hands. He used to front a band called the Innocent Criminals and that drew me to his music. Enjoy this creative artist.
Teacher as Transformer 