We wrote limericks again today. Some students finished the ones they had begun and others were absent. One student from the latter group wanted to know what could go with something about the sea. I threw this out, but she wasn’t interested. I think it is the abridged story of the Old Man and the Sea.
There was an old man who lived on the sea.
He loved an occasional cuppa tea.
Unfortunately, he the water was from the brine.
He joyfully turned to wine.
That drunken old man who lived on the sea.
I posted the wonderful poem Daybreak last night and I was reminded of the need for silence as I wrote. Community members added a rich tapestry about the need for silence and the role it plays in life.
It was pretty quiet today and I felt at peace with where I am at and who I am today. I realized I have not written poetry nearly as much recently and found myself drawn to the words I used last night in the preamble.
Silence–
A beautiful place,
Just being,
Hear like never before.
Cradled in gentle spaciousness;
Watered, nourished–
Rest in silence’s glow,
The moment embraces.
Pause–
Breathe–
Listen–
Stillness welcomes.
Refreshed–
I rise,
I grow,
I create.
Silence is a beautiful place to be. I grow in that space and feel the energy renew me. I can stop and listen to what my heart says. Silence, in that way, is the vital pause in life. It is the pause that refreshes to use a line from popular culture. I find humility in my silence because I take time, listen to my self, and listen to the other.
I found this beautiful poem from Nobel Laureate Gabriela Mistral. She was the first Latin American to win the Nobel Prize in Literature.
My heart swells that the
universe
like a fiery cascade may
enter.
The new day comes. Its coming
leaves me breathless.
I sing like a cavern
brimming
I sing a new day.
For grace lost and recovered
I stand humble. Not giving.
Receiving.
Until the gorgon night,
vanquished, flees.
I commented I finished Margaret Wheatley‘s book, So Far From Home. She concluded with a beautiful poem. It reminded how importance quiet and mindful moments are. I was less rushed these last couple of days and it was like a digital sabbath.
Thomas Merton, the Trappist monk, wrote: “The rush and pressure of modern life are a form, perhaps the most common form, of its innate violence. To allow oneself to be carried away by a multitude of conflicting concerns, to surrender to too many demands, to commit oneself to too many projects, to want to help everyone in everything is to succumb to violence. More than that, it is cooperation in violence. The frenzy of the activist…destroys his own inner capacity for peace. It destroys the fruitfulness of his own work, because it kills the root of inner wisdom which makes work fruitful.”
My mother used to teach us about being Soldiers of Christ. We walk in the “same steps as Christ” (2 Corinthians 12:18, 1 Peter 2:21). We “[pray] always with all prayer and supplication in the Spirit” (Ephesians 6:18), and “open your mouth boldly, to make known the mystery of the gospel” (Ephesians 6:19). Soldiers, in this context, seek peace from within and quiet the mind so their actions and words parallel each other.
We are grateful to discover our right work and happy to be engaged in it.
We embody values and practices that offer us meaningful lives now.
We let go of needing to impact the future.
We refrain from adding to the aggression, fear and confusion of this time.
We welcome every opportunity to practice our skills of compassion and insight, even very challenging ones.
We resist seeking the illusory comfort of certainty and stability.
We delight when our work achieves good results yet let go of needing others to adopt our successes.
We know that all problems have complex causes. We do not place blame on any one person or cause, including ourselves and colleagues.
We are vigilant with our relationships, mindful to counteract the polarizing dynamics of this time.
Our actions embody our confidence that humans can get through anything as long as we’re together.
We stay present to the world as it is with open minds and hearts, knowing this nourishes our gentleness, decency and bravery.
We care for ourselves as tenderly as we care for others, taking time for rest, reflection and renewal.
We are richly blessed with moments of delight, humor, grace and joy.
We are grateful for these.
I had another great day at Teacher’s Convention. Made another contact for my dissertation process. It is quite interesting the willingness of people to help.
Harry Russ who provides the blog wrote this beautiful poem. I finished reading Margaret Wheatley‘s book, So Far From Home. She referred several times to human hearts and their capacity for love and kindness. Parker Palmer, in his book Healing the Heart of Democracy, referred to the heart being able to hold so much. Harry’s Russ’ poem reminded me of their writing and I think he is on to something: the heart and the spirit combined have incredible capacity.
“Nobody has ever measured, not even poets, how much the human heart can hold.” Zelda Fitzgerald
…But if I might be so bold
While I don’t know the exact amount
From what I have found
I believe
The human spirit
Can store
Even more
I re-blogged an Elisabeth Kubler-Ross quote this morning about resiliency. I am not always comfortable with new things or taking risks, yet I took huge risks in my adult life. I went back to university as a married adult with a family and, to some extent, we reversed roles for several years in our family. Kathy was the primary bread-winner. We sacrificed things others around us took for granted, but in the long run we ended up where we wanted to be, here.
I learned on this journey called life that bumps on the road are more worthwhile than perfectly planned and executed outcomes, if those happen. I found, the past few years, as hard as I wished for things to be a certain way did not make them that way. I hope it makes me a better person learning that things do not work out perfectly and that is part of the joy of life.
Elizabeth Carlson wrote this beautiful poem about falling in love with my imperfections. I am more complete with them.
I am falling in love
with my imperfections
The way I never get the sink really clean,
forget to check my oil,
lose my car in parking lots,
miss appointments I have written down,
am just a little late.
I am learning to love
the small bumps on my face
the big bump of my nose,
my hairless scalp,
chipped nail polish,
toes that overlap.
Learning to love
the open-ended mystery
of not knowing why
I am learning to fail
to make lists,
use my time wisely,
read the books I should.
Instead I practice inconsistency,
irrationality, forgetfulness.
Probably I should
hang my clothes neatly in the closet
all the shirts together, then the pants,
send Christmas cards, or better yet
a letter telling of
my perfect family.
But I’d rather waste time
listening to the rain,
or lying underneath my cat
learning to purr.
I used to fill every moment
with something I could
cross off later.
Perfect was
the laundry done and folded
all my papers graded
the whole truth and nothing but
Now the empty mind is what I seek
the formless shape
the strange off center
sometimes fictional
me.
I enjoy reading Thich Nhat Hanh. Presently, I am reading Margaret Wheatley’s new book: So Far From Home. Margaret Wheatley brought shared this by the Zen monk. The poem and book are gentle reminders to pause, reorient ourselves in the present, and find strength and courage to continue the journey. It does not end.
The road goes on and we only walk one step at a time, one moment at a time, and each step moves us into an unknown future. It is good to rest and make each step mindful. We live in the present moment, find courage, and discover strength to carry on. It is in this moment, this space, we are at home, because when we are mindful we can nowhere else.
“They were exhausted. They had been traveling longer than they could remember. Their journey had begun with energy and enthusiasm, but that too they could no longer recall. They had lost many companions along the way—some had turned back, some had refused to go on, some had died of weariness. They all had suffered greatly.
They came to a narrow bridge that spanned a great river running swift and fast. On the far shore they could see what they had dreamed of during all these years of hardship—gentle green valleys and peaceful lakes reflecting clear blue sky. They stood there astonished to realize that what they had struggled so long for was suddenly here.
They began walking across the bridge with joyful steps. Midway across, they were stopped by children who had come to meet them. Tears overcame them for their own children left behind long ago. The children began to speak: “You cannot enter our land. You must go back. You will need to repeat your struggles. You must go back and do it all again.
The warriors stood there quietly. They gazed longingly at the pleasant pastures. They beheld the bright faces of the children. Tenderly, they bent down and kissed their cheeks. Then they stood up and spoke: “We are not afraid.” And they went back to begin again their journey.”
I read and heard about innovation several times over the the past few days. I was professionally developed yesterday and it came up again. The person indicated innovation is half-formed ideas bumping up against each other as we share them. I wondered about that, because it suggests we work together, collaborate, and recognize the interdependent nature of humans and the world they live in together. I rarely see this and I doubt a bureaucratic mindset is one that embraces those features of innovation. I read recently, and I apologize about a lack of reference, that it is not enough to show up. We need to do something when we get there. David Whyte summarized this beautifully in the following poem.
I started on the academic work last night. I was productive as I tracked down some books that I have in my library and added to the library with a book order.
Yesterday, we began our poetry unit at school. I enjoy it and I think, for the most part, the students do as well. They grumble a bit, but, when they start writing they are laughing. We wrote limericks. I wander around the room, talk my way through limericks, and write one or two down on the board. It is mostly off the top of my head and they are fairly rough, but the students get a charge out of it and realize not to take it too seriously. I wrote these two on the board and decided to share.
There once was a boy named Earl
He wanted so desperately to be a squirrel.
Allergic to nuts, his dreams were dashed.
Distressed he wailed and his teeth he gnashed
That young fellow named Earl.
There once was a boy who loved basketball
Three-pointers were his downfall.
He went to shooting school
There he did rule
Today, he has fame and is in the Hall.
I will change my routine week and post less often. I need to work on my dissertation topic. I want to enroll in the proposal seminar in June. If not, it will be next fall. I need to begin to set the table for the next part of life’s journey.
Today, I commented in an online forum about the state of public education. Another commentator asked, “Is there no hope for real change in the schools of America?” I am not American and cannot answer that specific question from where I sit. Instead, I answered, “I do have hope and, more importantly, I have faith that we can make the necessary changes despite the obstacles. What do we want for our children and grandchildren? This seems like the question we need to ask. Does change offer a sustainable future, not for me, but for future generations in an unimaginable, complex, and chaotic world? This need for real, flexible, and sustainable change reminded me of Margaret Mead: “Never doubt that a small group of thoughtful, committed citizens can change the world; indeed, it’s the only thing that ever has.”
I found this beautiful poem by Brazilian poet Rubin Alves. He spoke of hope, but not hope as a soft and gentle aspect of life, but hope matched with suffering and resiliency which gives rise change and the hoped. I particularly enjoyed: “So let us plant dates/even though we who plant them will never eat them./We must live by the love of what we will never see.”
What is hope?
It is the pre-sentiment that imagination
is more real and reality is less real than it looks.
It is the hunch that the overwhelming brutality
of facts that oppress and repress us
is not the last word.
It is the suspicion that reality is more complex
than the realists want us to believe.
That the frontiers of the possible are not
determined by the limits of the actual;
and in a miraculous and unexplained way
life is opening up creative events
which will open the way to freedom and resurrection –
but the two – suffering and hope
must live from each other.
Suffering without hope produces resentment and despair.
But, hope without suffering creates illusions, naïveté
and drunkenness.
So let us plant dates
even though we who plant them will never eat them.
We must live by the love of what we will never see.
That is the secret discipline.
It is the refusal to let our creative act
be dissolved away by our need for immediate sense experience
and is a struggled commitment to the future of our grandchildren.
Such disciplined hope is what has given prophets, revolutionaries and saints,
the courage to die for the future they envisage.
They make their own bodies the seed of their highest hopes.
ivonprefontaine
Teacher as Transformer 