You Who Leave

Day 3 of the writing unit

You Who Leave

can live with integrity

can live deceitfully

can be a model of what to do

can be a model of what not to do

can show respect for others and yourself

can worry only about pleasing yourself

can use all that you’ve learned to make the world a better place.

can ignore every opportunity you’ve been given.

can take responsibility for who you are going to be.

can lay blame on others for who you are.

can make these choices, every single day.

You Who Leave.

Student Responses
"You use more good literary elements."
"Where would you hang this as a sign?"

You Who Enter

Day 2 of the writing unit...

You Who Enter

will learn if you are willing to listen.

will be challenged if you work hard.

will be distracted if you make your social life your priority.

will make friends if you are willing to open yourself.

will make enemies if you are willing to stand up against the crowd.

will face bullies who might make life unbearable.

will face obstacles that can make or break you depending on your response.

will fall in love, with a person, an activity, or a subject.

will learn who you are and who you want to be.

will have the choice to do all of this, every single day.

You Who Enter


Student Responses:
"I think you should write another one that starts with You Who Leave."
"You use lots of literary elements. Especially the good ones."

Dancing in the Rain

Every year, after the big test, I work in a creative writing unit with my seniors.  This involves responding to various quotes from a text.  The format (short story, poetry, personal narrative, etc.) is up to the student, as is the length.  The goal is simply to write a lot and engage each other in meaningful sharing and discussion about personal voice.  This is, by far, my favorite unit of the year.  

My hope is to post my daily musings with some of the responses of my students.  

~

Dancing in the Rain

She looked foolish, but she didn't care.

Centered in the light cast from the streetlamp, she spun and spun and spun. A hearty spring rain dowsed her hair, now plastered to her face, small rivers of water streaming from the ends. Her mottled blue tee-shirt clung to her; her jeans grew exponentially heavier with every twirl as the rain washed down the road.

Each drop fell cool on her skin, immediately coming together in a liquid embrace.  Water rushed between her bare toes, the smooth red bricks a riverbed beneath. She extended her arms, lifting them toward the sky, a smile spreading, and a laugh escaping.

It was a lifetime ago when she last did this. A handful of broken hearts, innumerable tears and laughs, new relationships formed, old relationships faded, strong relationships bolstered: uncountable experiences that slowly chiseled her into the woman now giggling and spinning in the the middle of the street in cascades of rain.

This. This is who I am. How could I ever forget?

Last night, I danced in the rain.

~

Student responses:

"Exponentially is a cool word."

"Why did she forget who she was?"

"What if you told it from the rain's point of view? Like personified it?"

Revisiting the Scale

Scale:  a calibrated system of measurement

We have myriad scales with which we measure ourselves: it may be in comparison to someone else, an index that tells us where we fall in a group, a physical device to measure weight or height, a musical spectrum to measure pitch, a ranking system, etc.  That we fall where we fall on such scales isn’t the problem.  A number is a number.  The problem arises when the numbers are assigned a value or worth.  

Don’t get me wrong: worth and value are important.  It is necessary for people to seek these things.  I think that we, as a species, find life’s meaning in the value or worth of the people we love and the things we do.  Unfortunately, though, I am afraid that many of us do not determine the value or worth for the numbers; we let others do that for us.  Sometimes we do this because we do not know or haven’t learned as much about a subject as others, so by default, their definition of value trumps our own.  Sometimes, it is the social construct of the scale, etched into our brains through repeated images and words by the media that defines the value.  And sometimes it is those we love who determine the standards of the ideal.  Rarely, so rarely, is it the individual who examines the scale and assigns worth.  Even less frequently does one create his/her own scale altogether.

Measure:  a standard unit of quantity or quality

My own struggles with scales began long ago (see my last post), and what started as a clash of calories in versus calories out has since morphed into an internal war that has defined me in ways of which I was never quite aware until recently.  Quite simply, it boils down to works.  If I work hard enough at something, to erase an imperfection, to strengthen a weakness, to be flawless, I will have worth.  I know millions of others get where I’m comin’ from; in fact, Alanis Morrissette wrote some awesome lyrics and Janice Mirikitani composed a powerful poem that say it much more eloquently than I.  

Each of us has something about us that we believe holds us down or back or outside of some perceived value in an imposed measurement system.  For a long time, at least in my mind, I thought that something has been my weight.  However, over the past couple of months as I have navigated the tempests of depression and the squalls of weight loss, I have come to realize my issue isn’t just about weight but about achieving somebody else’s definition of worth.  

Quality:  value; worth

I’ve never had a deliberate conversation with myself about my own definition of worth.  Sure, I have adopted certain criterion I know are good: honesty, loyalty, empathy, compassion, faith, the ability to celebrate the moment, the ability to appreciate the blessings I have been given, the ability to laugh - a lot - as well as the ability to cry.  These have all come to me through my awesome family, friends, and experiences, though some of these weren’t-so-awesome.  Still, I have yet to consciously define what I deem worth.

I am not going to preach about how I’ve had some sort of epiphany and I suddenly celebrate all the wonderful things my body does, like play the game I love so much or allow me to live a full life, which it does.  My struggle with that scale may never end.  I am hoping, though, that I can now start to create my own scale and that I can recognize that others’ might well be very different than my own.  My hope is that in my pursuit of my own definition of worth, I can be cognizant of using my own scale rather than those established by others.  My hope is that my scale will be something I use to measure my growth and not to diminish someone else.  Let’s face it: most of us do enough diminishing of ourselves.

Living to Scale...

Several years ago, I participated in the National Writing Project.  It was an intense six-week course of writing in which I really began to discover my voice.  While I wrote many pieces in that time, there has been one that has been on my mind a lot lately.  When I pulled it up and re-read it, of course I wanted to revise, but I think the words we give to our thoughts hinge on our experiences.  I have had a slew of experience since originally penning this, so my plan is to revisit these thoughts and feelings in a later post.  Until then, the original:

Living to Scale

My sixth grade teacher told me I looked great one day, after I’d dropped two pant sizes.   Finally, I was adequate…    

That god-awful scale had an orange plastic base with a white dish on top to hold the food being measured and weighed.  Its box was ripped and falling apart from taking it out and putting it back at every meal and snack.  Mom would be at the sink, washing vegetables and meat for hers and my sister's meal while I had to weigh each portion of my own before they were cooked, the Weight Watchers book open so I knew how much I was allowed.  

I remember tiny lines on the metal at the front of the scale, measuring my spirit at every hash.  I remember the red slit dropping lower as the dish, filled with my self, rested on top.  I measure perfectly to the line, never drop too low, never put more of me in that scale than it could handle.  I could always be lighter, but never, never heavier; no more than six ounces of fish, or whatever the magic number was, all the while praying I was losing more this week than last.  If my prayers are answered, Mom will be so proud; everyone will be so impressed.  

The grass opened up to a big hill on those weekly treks for weigh-in at my aunt’s house.  Every blade meant a calorie to me, one more to burn off in that ten-minute walk.  I wondered how much Pepsi I could afford if I took the long way instead.  Every tree pointed accusingly at me.  

“How many calories did you have today?  Everyone will know when you step on the scale!”

And the scale never lied; it was brutally honest.  

“Only two pounds this week?  You were doing so well before!  You’ll have to make sure that red gash stays afloat this week.  Less fish and chicken, definitely less rice.” 

Funny how I always feared the bloody gash dropping too low on my scale, but rejoiced when I was lower on my aunt’s.    

No one else I know weighs their food.  No one I know has to lie on their mothers’ beds, listening to Madonna and rolling a rolling pin up and down on their bellies while their sisters watch to time them and make sure they are actually doing it. Does anyone else have their Valentine’s Day candy hidden from them?  

But the trees couldn't care less, and the blades of grass, weary from my steps, were tired of hearing it.

Another trip to my aunt’s for the weekly weigh-in, like a god-damned heifer, only instead of a blue ribbon for growing, they celebrate me dwindling away.  

A good Good Friday

In the Christian faith, Good Friday seems paradoxical.  I mean, how can someone call a day that saw the Son of God hang from two pieces of wood, nailed through his hands and feet, stabbed, spit on, mocked, and slowly die, and this after being beaten, lashed, and forced to carry the pieces of wood on which He would hang to the Place of the Skull, good?  It is rather remarkable to wrap the brain around: that such tearing of flesh, so many excruciating moments of unimaginable pain, would be the life-giving blood for us all.  To say I am grateful for this Good is almost insulting because the word grateful is so pitiful to describe what I feel.  And it pales in comparison to what I am about to share.

I had a pretty amazing day today.  Technically, because of Good Friday and Resurrection Sunday, every day is pretty amazing.  So perhaps a better way to word it is to say that today added many more drops to the ocean of grace He has given me.

Counting my blessings today, in no particular order:

~ I got over a stomach bug and was able to move around and see people I love.

~ I had lunch with an awesome friend who encourages me, trusts me enough to share with me, and makes me laugh like few people can, especially about myself.

~ I have a brother-in-law willing to sacrifice a beautiful afternoon to visit a car dealership and go through the haggling that makes me want to jam pens in my ears.

~ I had dinner with four generations of women in my family.

~ I have a sister who shares a secret language and can communicate with a glance.

~ I have a 92-year-old grandmother who is spunky as all get-out.

~ I have a mom who wants me to call when I get home to be sure I am safe.

~ I have a stepdad who wants to come help me make my home better, again.

~ I have a niece whose work ethic, passion, and sense of humor delight me.

~ I have another niece whose curiosity, faith, and cleverness also delight me.

~ I had a conversation with a former student who made me crazy when we first met, made me laugh like crazy once we learned how to get along, and makes me proud, proud, proud to this day.

There are so many blessings I can add, so many people and experiences, that transcend today.  The amazing thing is that the Lord knows I am broken, deeply flawed, and profoundly weak, and He gives me so much, just in one day.  One day just under two millennia ago, and one day today.  

By His wounds we are healed.

Anchored

“A heavy object attached to a rope or chain, 

used to moor a vessel to the sea bottom.”

In its truest purpose, an anchor holds a boat or ship in place, keeping the vessel steady despite the currents of the waters in which it resides.  This is true in both the serene times, when the sun dances in diamond brilliance while the water beneath reflects the crystalline blue of the sky, as well as the turbulent times, when the heavens darken, the thunder rolls, the waves roil, and the lightning rents the clouds in a jagged radiance.  The purpose of an anchor is to hold the vessel fixed from the influences that might push it off its course.

How many times have the currents pushed us off course?  Pausing in contentment in where we are in our journeys, it might be weeks or months before we realize those gentle waves of satisfaction have pushed us miles from the original trajectory.  We don’t notice because the sun is all shine with nary a cloud in the sky, and it is the lightest of breezes that brushes our cheeks.  Or, conversely, we are focusing on bailing the brine that has washed over the hull, trying our best to simply stay afloat.  By the time the skies clear and we can catch our breath, the tempest has not only thrown us miles off course but we struggle simply to find our bearings.

Something happens, though, when we are anchored.  When we have both felt loved and given love, when we have soul-searched and committed to who we want to be, we develop one.  Some anchors may hold more strongly than others, depending on the strength of love we’ve experienced, and some may move some when a truly powerful typhoon hits, but once we have them, these anchors give us the stability we need so when we do get jostled about by life’s storms or distracted by the sunlight, we have a connection to where we want to be.  

There are many days when I sit back and try to view the world objectively, and on those days, more often than not, I am frustrated and saddened by it.  I see the way we are treating each other, the callousness, the disregard, the selfishness, and sometimes the brutality.  To be clear, I am not just talking about the nightly news or reading through the Associate Press app.  I am talking about what I see first-hand in the world, whether it be between strangers or between people I know.  

It occurs to me that much of this happens because so many of us are not anchored, in love or faith or hope.  They disregard others: they lack the compassion and empathy that can hold us steady.  They care only about their own satisfaction and care nothing for those who might be hurt in the process; they have no mooring on which to hold.  These aren’t always people who have had the awful childhood or traumatic events that have interrupted or inhibited the forming anchor.  Sometimes, these are the people who choose to cut loose from the weight.  

This makes me wonder, though, as more and more people choose to do just that.  If we are severed from that which braces us, I see more and more wreckage drifting to the bottom of the sea because it is getting more and more crowded out there, crowded with those careening out of control both by choice and by circumstance.  If you think the damage will only be to those ships, you’re wrong.  As the wreckage decays, the toxins will continue to seep out for generations to come.

I am thankful for those who anchor me; I hope and pray I provide that stability and security for you as well.

Which hope we have as an anchor of the soul, both sure and stedfast, and which entereth into that within the veil;  ~ Hebrews 6:19