Category Archives: Laura’s Slices

Who I Am

Guest blogging for Rick Hess, NCTM, Sarah Brown Wessling concludes, “Parker Palmer says that we ‘teach who we are’ and I suppose that means I teach my passionate, geeked out, vulnerable, imperfect, tenacious self who can’t wait to see 95 versions of those qualities in the faces I meet each day.”

What a great frame:  We teach who we are.  I suppose that means I teach my _____________ ____________________________________who _______________________________________.

I teach my creative, multi-modal, persistent, insecure, sometimes demanding self who can’t wait to see 75 versions of those qualities in the faces I meet each day.

Focus

RhiaFrom the moment I heard of purple sand at Pfieffer Beach, Big Sur CA,  I wanted to go.  Labor Day I bought a convertible and my granddaughter and I took a weekend road trip. 

What is even more grand than the places where the tide washes the sand with streaks of purple, is the triad of massive stones, sculpted on the perimeter of the beach.

When we walked onto the sand, I remember a few comments likes “Wow” but immediately Rhia was off exploring and I was following my camera eye.  We found each other maybe an hour, two hours later?  With the wind, waves and breathless beauty who can tell time.

To take in the grand, big things and to admire the infinitesimal bits of wonder was our joy, our sole purpose for being.

Writing has that beach feature.  I can zoom in on a tiny glimpse of a profile in the shadow of the evening and the one sound I heard, or vault around the meaning of life and universal themes that turn into essays, memoirs.

Writing: Reckless Proposals

The F Train

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Dolores Romaine Brown, aka Mom, pours over the skinny edition of the news, comfy in her full-length forest green robe.  Mom reads critically and remembers.

Much wordless history.  Yet the present is simple as scraping butter over toast, having another half-cup coffee.  The arc of houses on Twin Peaks is cleanly sculpted in pastel.  This season is sunlit relief that her kidney transplant worked and that she can take the stairs.

I could write Big D accolades.  Her perseverance, liberal dealings, midlife success and exemplary retirement.  Bon vivant.  But I’ll say her wrinkled face, raised eyebrows and ready laughter are dear to me.

After the leisurely breakfast, we take the F Train down to the Embarcadero with bags of tourists.  When we walk into the Slanted Door, the maître d’ eyebrows raise as we demure about lack of reservations.  However, we are seated soon, relishing a cava and jicama/grapefruit salad.

The satiated ride back into setting sun is comfy bumping and musing silence.  Until a fella with a big bag gets on midtown and asks the Big D how old she is.  She turns into Maggie Smith primly remonstrating his impolite question.  I’m trying not to laugh. From the seat across the aisle, I name my birth year, telling him to do the math.  He counters by asking me to marry him.  Lonnngg silence staring ahead.  He gets off at the next stop.

The F Train takes us to the Castro where we catch the 37 back up Twin Peaks.  Why does that awkward moment stick?

Life goes on, as Eliot says, on its “metalled ways” but there is something desperate in us to make contact, to commune, even to feel the loneliness of others.  It’s the F Train, with the ribald driver making all the tourists laugh.  It’s the mad rush of holiday people going downtown.  It’s lunch with my 84 year old mom. And later, it’s just the image of late sun in the windshield, glancing off the passersby.

That is perhaps one of the reasons I write.  To make reckless proposals I don’t have to keep.

Just about time

IMG_0008For me, spring break means some days at home with my cat, Mickey. Some days at home.

I live alone with this cow kitty who thinks he owns the hood.  He has just come in from the yard in time for blogging, a late night habit of mine.  He is making biscuits on the black and white blanket beside me.  He says “yeow” when I pet him.

I know people get silly about their pets sometimes, but I do love my cat.  He has attitude and dignity, and he is bonded with me.  Mickey is good company, as long as I keep the crunchies in the bowl that says “feed me” at the bottom.

Here’s to cats and pets.  And a break during spring.

Letter of Intent

CookieIn the ed world it’s that time of year, when talented new teachers are getting “pink slips” and tenured and veteran teachers are asked to state their intent.  Will you retire or return?  If not to the same assignment, what is your second choice?

My choice is to continue this crazy game of interventionist, a position which is “under review” by the admin.  My second choice was to support new teachers working as a teacher on special assignment (TOSA).  My principal nixed that and asked me to fill out a new letter of intent.

This is hard, because returning to one of the regular, self-contained classrooms is not my intent.  Maybe it is time to update the resume.  Or wait, wondering what my next year’s future will be.

Hard to give so much and stay engaged if someone in admin is toying with taking it away.  So a more focused, immediate future:  Try to stay focused on what the students need and how I am delivering it.  Find some humor.

And don’t look to fortune cookies for your answers.  🙂

Sun Day

NasturtiumMy day began with a swoosh of laundering, tossing pillows out in the sun on patio chairs to air, hosing the wool blanket on the driveway fence.  And all bedding and bath towels chunka-chunking in the washing machine with soapsuds.

Just marvelous to air out the house, and fluff everything up in sunshine.

The orchids went out to be fed turquoise solution and drenched in soft hose spray.  Everything else got watered and several succulents moved to sunnier domains.

On a day like today house cleaning did not feel like a chore.  It was a joy.

 

Letter to new participants

IMG_0009Today at our follow up session for the Intensive Summer Institute 2012, teachers wrote letters to the incoming 2013 participants.  Since I have been co-directing for 8 years, my letter wouldn’t work as a participant, but I wrote anyway.

Dear ISI 13 fellow,

It is a pleasure to welcome you to this summer’s intensive institute, which continues the “unwavering commitment to respectful professional development for teachers” that began with Jim Gray in 1974 at Berkeley’s Bay Area Writing Project.  For whatever reason you applied, whether arm-twisted by the Director himself, or badgered by an overly enthusiastic colleague, you are in for the treat of being respected for your expertise and being listening to for your insight.

I suspect that you were moved by much more than the 6 units of credit or the puny stipend to put half your summer on hold to commit to be with us.  You deserve time to write.  Time to talk.  Time to reflect.

When you are in the middle of the intensity; let’s say the day before you give your demo and the week before the portfolio and anthology writing is due, you may well question why you applied to ISI 13.  However, in retrospect, when you go back to, or on to your next teaching or coaching assignment, you will be more of the teacher you want to be.  It will be a systemic effect that will continue.  You will respect the other side of the writing desk your students occupy.  You will likely listen to them more deeply.  And, no matter what reforms or administrative things come down the pike, you will be confident that you are indeed a professional.

Your voice for what matters most in teaching and especially the teaching of writing will be heard.  You will grow as a leader.

I’m suspecting that none of these are reasons you applied.  Maybe you just want to see some new strategies and get a sense of refreshment in your teaching.  I’m just saying, I’ve seen how it works.  It happened to me…and many teachers I’ve known.

You belong.  Welcome to a community of people who care about education, who value teacher expertise and who will challenge you to be your very best self.

Breathe.  Get comfy.  Enjoy the ride.

Laura

 

 

 

Prove You’re Not a Robot

I dare you.

Blogging late at night and having to type in two distorted words or numerals to post a comment, does that really prove I’m not a robot?

The burgeoning brain research from imaging indicating our intelligence is fluid and demonstrating surprising neural plasticity — awakens possibilities. However, it also pushes me up against
difficulties. The robotic part of me that is nowise creative.  What does the average mind do to change? While my intelligence may not be fixed, I certainly don’t seem free to choose who I’m going to be tomorrow or how I’m going to react to the events around me.

My brain has body maps for each movement (not Brain Mapping, U.S. government quest) which Ramachandran and William Hirstein (Center for Brain and Cognition) dramatically proved through their work for patients with phantom limb pain.  Muscle memory as we dancers call it.  And then there are mirror neurons, the science term for what literary people call empathy.  I have a stock of them.

I want to know how, at any given moment, I can step out of the galaxy web of maps and mazes of electrical current and actually write two original words?  It isn’t the typing of two words for site security.  It brings up the difficulty of saying anything genuinely original, that’s worth reading.

Squint harder at the four numerals and the blotchy stretched lettering…prove you’re not a robot.

Layers

IMG_0012I dimly listened to Vivaldi ~ was it yesterday morning’s cold, grey drive? “That must mean it’s spring,” I thought from my cocoon of projects and due dates.

Today the slanting California sun invited me to un-rumple and dry out.  Squatting to admire the succulents along the walkway and inhaling the late fragrance of daphne ~  just Being Out of Doors ~ noticing the white wisteria is beginning to open and the skinny kids across the street are taller.  Seeing the light dance lime green through everything in the front yard.

Well, time to put away those winter worries and take off some of the layers of insulation.  I feel almost myself again.

Screening and Progress Monitoring

I’m back filling data off RenLearn tracking six rounds of focus groups,

marshaling them into a tidy Excel format.  But this task is getting tedious.  Screening sounds more like screaming

and progress mumbling and my entire year keeps passing by my eyes.

And faces of kids

with each name appear and roll by my mind

wondering if I did enough

and who did I miss? fearing there’s a kid who dropped off the map.

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Old barn

My brain is tired and my neck and shoulders beyond weary.

I think I’d better back off the report

for the sake of having a bit of style and smile for the full day tomorrow.

The data will make it to my principal for Friday’s review.