Tokens of Affection

One of the perks of being a teacher to young ones is when small tokens of genuine love get shared with you as you go about your day. Parents must get to enjoy this all the time, but those of us without our own children are reminded what a gift these unsolicited gestures truly are. As kindergarteners go, Surina charms me on a regular basis. She and I have a special connection... I taught her a couple month's ago how to make origami cranes, and she is now working diligently to meet her goal of 1,000 so her wish will come true (as is the Japanese tradition). We are warm with each other, but not physically affectionate like I sometimes am with some of her classmates. That is what makes each relationship unique – you have to read the child, and meet them where they meet you. This afternoon, out of the blue, Surina presented me with a big card covered in paper flowers. Since it was given to me so late in the day, I assumed it was a forgotten craft she had just rediscovered in her backpack, something made the day before at aftercare now ready to be taken home when she decided to give it me instead. That was when I saw the hand-written card stapled to it's side – “To Carla. I love you. This is a valley of red roses I made for you out of tissue paper. Love, Surina” Of course, all of this was written with phonemic wording, using best-guess spelling patterns and punctuation we've been practicing. My heart grows two sizes larger at times like this, as I’m once again reminded that I need these children as much as they need me. Teaching is the right job for me, of that there is no denying.

A poem by Louise Erdrich

Advice to Myself 

Leave the dishes.
Let the celery rot in the bottom drawer of the refrigerator
and an earthen scum harden on the kitchen floor.
Leave the black crumbs in the bottom of the toaster.
Throw the cracked bowl out and don't patch the cup.
Don't patch anything. Don't mend. Buy safety pins.
Don't even sew on a button.
Let the wind have its way, then the earth
that invades as dust and then the dead
foaming up in gray rolls underneath the couch.
Talk to them. Tell them they are welcome.
Don't keep all the pieces of the puzzles
or the doll's tiny shoes in pairs, don't worry
who uses whose toothbrush or if anything
matches, at all.
Except one word to another. Or a thought.
Pursue the authentic-decide first
what is authentic,
then go after it with all your heart.
Your heart, that place
you don't even think of cleaning out.
That closet stuffed with savage mementos.
Don't sort the paper clips from screws from saved baby teeth
or worry if we're all eating cereal for dinner
again. Don't answer the telephone, ever,
or weep over anything at all that breaks.
Pink molds will grow within those sealed cartons 
in the refrigerator. Accept new forms of life
and talk to the dead
who drift in though the screened windows, who collect
patiently on the tops of food jars and books.
Recycle the mail, don't read it, don't read anything
except what destroys
the insulation between yourself and your experience
or what pulls down or what strikes at or what shatters
this ruse you call necessity.

writing wrules

How was it possible I was getting lost?! I mean, after 28 years in the Bay Area, how could I not find this place? I'd passed it enough times on my way to Stinson, and even came here with my 5th graders a few years ago to meditate and write some poetry. But like everything else these days, nothing seems to stick in this brain of mine...things just get murkier and muddier with each passing year. Besides, it was raining and parts of Highway 1 were closed due to mudslides, so I could always blame my lateness on that. Eventually, I found the slushy parking lot for day visitors, and started forging a path with precarious footing to the rotunda that would be our classroom for the day. As instructed, I slipped off my shoes before entering, and was pleasantly surprised to feel the warmth wofitng up from a wood-burning fireplace in the center of the room. The workshop I'd signed up for at Green Gulch was intended for beginning writers. My hope was this was really true, as I feared I was definitely the least practiced or skilled, and worried I had gotten over my head with the ambitious decision to attend.

In the end, the day was equal parts weird, scary, embarrassing and invigorating. In settings like this - zen mediation oases with touchy-feely, endearing patrons, I speculate that everyone I encounter has a secret magnifying glass directly into my soul, and I fear they can spot a phony a mile away. Not to suggest I'm a phony, but my judgmental, immature nature holds equal footing with my thoughtful, empathetic persona. And damn, that cynical, sabotaging voice was amped up to 11 in my writing today. Everything I put down felt indulgent, trying, bleeding-heart depressed. My ego desperately wanted to be stroked for harboring a hidden talent, but I also wanted to be shut down for having an average voice that wasn't saying much more than a self-loathing, under-apprecaited, sulking teenager. Walking back to my car as the sun was setting, I tried to hang onto the positive - that I had done it and stuck my neck out for six hours in a room full of strangers. And I had to admit it, I did feel encouraged - encouraged to stick it to paper, encouraged to "use my words" (as we say often in preschool) without having to worry so much about whether they were good enough or who would hear them.

Here, then, are ten sound tips from our instructor, all of which resonated in some way with me:
1. Write it for yourself. Write what's really on your mind - don't edit. You can always burn it later.
2. Trust the words that come out of you. Don't choose "better" words.
3. Don't try to sound smart. Smart writing is not good writing.
4. Try writing in the third person instead of a first-person perspective.
5. Put some skin in the game: reveal something. After all, we're all in the same boat.
6. Show it, don't tell it. Reveal the intent through a story ("If there was a space between our thighs, then my dad would allow us to have dessert," rather than "Dad seemed uncomfortable with us carrying weight.")
7. Jar yourself into telling a true story. Use "If you really knew me, ..." as a prompt.
8. Start a story with "This is not a story about..."
9. Never try to pretty up your writing or write what you think others would like to hear.
10. Put a spin on Louisa May Allcott's "Write what you know" adage...write what you don't know you know about - you might be surprised.

The letter I wished I'd once received

Our admissions director confirmed today what I'd been dreading to hear - Max is headed to a new school next year. For all the support we've tried to give him, we could not provide the tools he needed to make it through here. I am so disheartened, and yet I'm trying to remain hopeful that we've planted enough of a seed...that he will land in a place that's better suited to meet his needs. Once I heard, I drafted a note to him I'm not sure I'll give him on the last day of school. It feels heady and might be more than a rising second grader can take in or comprehend. Maybe I'm worried it says too much about me, about what I needed when I was younger and less about what he needs or can handle right now. Still, if I had the courage, this is the letter I'd send:

Goomy,

As you get ready to embark on a new adventure, I wanted to send you off with a few words from me. You were one of my favorite things about teaching here last year. I loved the times we'd sit together and just draw. I didn’t even really mind the millions of times you teased me by shouting “Naked Mole Rat!” after you discovered how much I.Hate.Rats. It's been so awesome getting to know your brother now - I love seeing how much you two look forward to spotting each other at carpool at the end of the day. He admires and looks up to you a lot. I know school has been tough for you sometimes. When I was little, I had some tough times, too. I felt like no one else was experiencing what I was going through or feeling. But every person you meet will have some sort of challenge in life. And these truly are the things that will build your character, and make you a better, stronger person down the road. Don’t give up on yourself. Don’t tell yourself that you're not good enough or that you're so different from everyone else. Besides, the ways that you are different are pretty wonderful - you're incredibly smart, creative, funny and complex. The important people in your world will see you for all these things and more – don’t worrying about the ones who don’t. School can be hard sometimes, but don’t give up on it. There are subjects and things that you don’t even know about yet that will really hit a nerve with you someday soon. Your job will be to zone in on the things that really click, and find a way to get more of them into your daily life. But you have lots of things to learn about between now and then. I tell you all this because it is one thing to hear from your family members how great you are, but it is something else to have someone outside your family see all the gifts you possess and remind you that you truly are awesome. I believe in you, and I know you will do amazing things wherever you land.

Love,

Carla

The New Beauty Gurus

Lydia is a three-year-old after my own heart - she speaks her mind, and says it like she sees it. After I'd finished reading to her and a handful of other kids on the reading platform last week, she turned to me and announced casually, "Carla, you need lipstick." And the truth was, she was right. These days when I look into the mirror, I ponder whose tired, sad face is staring back at me. I hated to admit it, but I needed to put in more effort if even the youngest of my preschoolers was starting to notice. Besides, Lydia was someone I didn't mind taking advice from. With two dads, she is hands-down the best-dressed of all our little ones in the Montessori classroom. Her Boden polka-dot tops, worn with stylish jeans, glitter and suede ankle boots and a Marimekko rain coat reveal a girl-about-town flair with just a touch of European edge. I could do worse. And so, for the rest of the week I diligently applied lipstick whenever I thought I was beginning to fade. Until Friday morning. Lucas entered the class that day with what could only be described as a swagger as he headed to his cubby to drop off his coat and backpack. He was just about tell me what he'd brought in to share as he nonchalantly dropped it into the basket when he did a double take. "Hey! What's that on your face? Are you wearing lipstick?!" he asked. "Why, yes, I am," I replied, proud to see he'd noticed. "Well, you should take it off."

Now I don't know who I should take my beauty advice from. Preschoolers are a tough crowd.

Indian Clay

What smells?! I feel like I asked this question about a hundred times today, but never got any closer to finding a suitable answer. At afternoon circle, during the Feelings unit that Harald was teaching this month, he asked the four-year-olds to talk about a time they remembered feeling frustrated. “I felt frustrated today when Campbell took my Indian clay,” said Ella. Ah, Indian clay…our kids get so territorial about the stuff! They dig and dig in the sandbox for the elusive dark, iron-rich material that is valued like gold to them. There is little to go around, and today Ella really wanted to lay claim to excavating the buried treasure. But Campbell had beaten her to it. Harald listened patiently…but in the deep recesses of his nostrils, he too began to smell it…something just wasn't right. “Let me see this Indian clay,” he said to Campbell, who was holding a small piece in her hands like a prized possession. After careful examination, he exclaimed in horror, “This isn’t Indian clay, this is cat poop!” At first, she couldn’t take in the words. But slowly, her face began to shift to a deep shade of crimson as she realized what she’d been coveting was in fact some feral cat’s droppings – a gift left in what amounted to his or her own personal litter box. Only one face looked happy now: Ella had the distinct beginnings of a small, four-year old smirk appearing across hers. Indian clay will never hold the same charm and power in the South Class after today.