Supported Learning

                          (One stack of reading.)

Among the fortunate, I love my job.  My career began as a Special Education Teacher where I toddled between keeping up with paper work supervising Ed. Techs and teaching kids. I was my own secretary before the advent of computers; scheduling meeting after meeting with a roomful of players.  I also did most of the testing spending weekends writing reports.  Morphing into three of me might have made the position less challenging.  My boss regularly told me I was doing a great job, but gave me little support otherwise.  "Keep on, keeping on," he would say.  Today's technology would have made this job a bit more manageable.  Following this, I spent a glorious stint in a multi-age classroom team teaching.  Our days were filled with curiosity and wonder.  The classroom was filled with rich literature the likes of Tomie DePaola, Jan Brett, Cynthia Rylant and Patricia Pollaco.  Writers ourselves we guided five and six year olds through the craft negotiating rough spots; helping them find passion in their voice. Team teaching was a dream as we gave each other feedback and supported each other.   Later, I continued teaching first grade carrying the knowledge I learned from team teaching to a single classroom.  I took university classes and found mentors to support me; lifting my teaching through learning.

Presently and for the last five years, I have been a Reading Recovery Teacher.  The brilliance of support and continued learning through this organization is overlooked by the educational field.  Reading is a complex orchestration of processes in which a 30 minute lesson requires the skill and knowledge of a trained teacher to effect change.  I don't mean to sound superior in any way, however it is the continued extensive training that ultimately supports my students and makes a huge difference in my teaching. After a year long training program, all Reading Recovery Teachers attend monthly classes in which we talk about research and how that impacts our practice.  We observe live lessons and critique each other, supportive yet constructive. Visitations are set up on a regular basis where a Teacher Leader (my teacher) observes a lesson noting the language I use, the scaffolding in place to support the learner and the flurry of teaching decisions I make in a one-on one thirty minute lesson.  If my students are going to eccelerate, I need to be on my game. This support is invaluable. After all these years teaching; I continue to learn.  

My job is important. More than one student has thrown their arms around me and cried in happiness with flowing tears. "I can read!"   Perhaps they entered my room with the fear that they would never learn to read. Everyone wants to learn how to read.  Everyone deserves to learn how to read.  I have an important job and I love it. The effectiveness of Reading Recovery is in part because of this support that is in place for me and all Reading Recovery Teachers.  Why aren't all educators afforded these intensive learning opportunities?  In turn, it makes such a difference for my students.  I love my job; I am supported. I am grateful.

 

Still Learning

Life is now so full, so busy.  Six months ago, I went to work but did little else. The recliner was my support.  My connections were contrived through my i-phone and FaceBook, e-mails and messaging.  Least of all there was little connection to myself.  There were ample distractions of little importance.

One thing I had no idea about was how much work and time I require.  Each morning now I wake thinking about my daytime walk with a friend winding through the thick evergreen forest.  We pad along the cushion of pine and inhale.  Date night is walking arm and arm under the stars along the shore; some nights the ocean is placid like a lake.  My husband and I are spinning on Wednesday nights.  Date nights.  Simple, but meaningful.  We are nearing our next chapter in life determined to enjoy it; not bound by the limitations of our physical strength or stamina.  I prepare foods, mostly whole foods and search for new possibilities.  Keeping a food diary has been a key behavior contributing to my success. My thinking and the way I talk to and treat myself has become gentler, kinder and filled with increasing patience. 

Self-care is big business.  Books, websites and videos flood the market.  Why does this not become easier as we age?  Why do so many including myself struggle with this. In nature mothers linger with their babies-teaching.  My mother became a woman who while loving food did so in moderation. Through my teenage years much of the processed foods previously eaten were no longer purchased. When I was young Koolaid and Spaghettios were a convenience. Instead the house was stocked with fruit, veggies and lean protein.  We began drinking skim milk.  My mother and a few neighbors would regularly walk around the block and gab. She was a model mother in so many ways.

As I pack my sneakers and gym clothes to work out later at the Y, I reflect on how much I have learned over these months.  It is never too late to take care of yourself.  Somedays it is challenging, but I try my best to stay positive.  I am not sure it will get easier and take less time.  Right now though, I am the priority.  Period.  And....there is no need for guilt.

Solo Journey

It is just after 5 am and my husband is in the kitchen clanging around pots and pans in an attempt to leave the house with empty sinks.  What a dear.  Meanwhile I have cats one after another padding across my lap and a little dog nearly draped across my neck.  Even at this unreasonably  early hour (for me anyway), I am not alone.  I am seldom alone.

A few summers ago, I picked up an article about how one woman would  regularly backpack into the wild and spend days completely alone.  While this has appeal, it also terrifies me.  I am not entirely sure why just thinking about it makes me shake like a bowl of jello.   I spend so little time alone; being so dependent on the company and whits of others to solve problems and contemplate life.  Could I do it?  Am I afraid of discovering parts of myself that might rear their ugly heads?

During the last six months, I have discovered and rediscovered myself.  I don't give up easily.  On the other hand knowing when to quit can be a good thing.  There is also a bit of rigidity to my routines particularly when it comes to exercise.  I try to seek balance.  Self care takes a continuous effort and requires time.  It doesn't come to be second nature for me.  Somedays, I resent that I have to work so hard each day for me.  Fortunately those days are few. I tend to take life moment by moment.

This journey is akin to being alone in the forest.  With the help of a few people who guided me to the path and gave me some tools to proceed, I have weathered the storms of self.  Living in the present moment has helped me to accept what is. Learning to listen to my body while listening to my inner voice allows the pause to make choices that will support me.  I am the decision maker.  I am the only one on this unique path.  Strong, healthier, confident and content  I might just plan an extended time in the woods by myself this summer.  It is curious to think of how each of our journeys is unique and in reality solo.  No one can do it for you.  There comes a point where you have to trust yourself. And live each moment.

Darkness Returns

Darkness quiets the soul

extinguishing the flame.

Creeping through the black

Feeling a way out

Is the only means of

Escape,

Temporary escape.

For certain the darkness 

Will return,

Understanding then 

Its' ebb and flow has purpose,

Only through darkness 

Does one see the light.

The Nature of Exclusion

          -photo compliments of Jeff Kirlin

Exclusion is a terrible thing to experience.  I have lived it from the time I was a kid and Billy and his brother next door were yelling  at me, "You're too fat. You can't come up to the tree house.  You'll break it." Or later being told I cannot enter a store because I have two babies in a carriage.  And when I tried to enter with the babies in my arms; they barred the door with a hefty bouncer type guy.  I was floored.  Both hurt.  I realize my ache is no comparison to those who are excluded from buses, lunch counters or countries who represent freedom and much more than a new lease on life.  My little post is not to magnify my feelings of exclusion, while minimizing others' plight. However, I must raise awareness and recognize those initial pangs of hurt.  Perhaps my account will help you to reach out to some family in a similar situation, while developing empathy for all those who face some degree of exclusion by remembering mine.

When my husband and I learned that we were having twins, I wondered how we would all fit in our brand new car.  We couldn't.  Along with joy, there were plenty of logistics about how to get two infants, a toddler and a five year old from place to place.  Going to the lake, by myself with the kids for a few hours caused me to re-play the scene over and over in my head.  Rehearsing each step for a gentle and safe transition.  One thing we hadn't bargained for with a big family then and now (we have eight kids and now spouses and significant others, so we ARE bigger) is the fact that we were no longer invited to socialize with friends with or without the children. I understand; our numbers can be overwhelming for some. Early on, this was a lonely place; connections are important to any family.   We have adjusted.  Through 34 years of actively mothering there have been a few exceptions of which I am grateful.  

For more than 35 years, Jerry's cousin Barbara Jane and her husband Ken have hosted a family Open House to celebrate the holidays.  We have missed only one year through all those births, adoptions and Keene marriages.  36 years ago, Jerry and I met at this gathering. It holds significance to us as a couple, as a family and as an extended family which includes all the aunts and uncles originating from a family of 10 children. The Keenes do it BIG.   

As we push through their yellow farmhouse door this Sunday with our contribution of food in our arms, we will pause and give thanks for being part of a big, big family. Maybe, just maybe you might want to consider inviting a big family to your holiday table or to your table after the holidays.  Invites for them too might be few and far between.  

One Solution

I think about thinking.

Sometimes, I drive myself wild with my thoughts; habitual thoughts and patterns that get me stuck.   However, I am inching along this journey and pretty much OK.  Walking along the shore path yesterday during the early morning hours I could see clearly across the bay toward a range of mountains worn and rough, beaten by the wind and weather.  Sometimes feeling discouraged and beaten, I recognize that I am continually growing and reinventing myself as God's creation.   Despite this, I still carry what is no longer useful or healthy.  Yesterday on my walk I imagined dropping little bread crumbs (pieces of my former-self) along the path as I walked.  

Consciously and at times unconsciously I am approaching life and dancing to a new beat.  I am working toward gentleness and more kindness toward myself and others.  The other night, I had two dreams the first being quite vivid.  Both had a message imparting the importance of kindness.  In my dream, I hugged a woman that in reality I disagree with quite regularly.  My dealings with her through the years have filled me with frustration.  Presently, I also know that this woman is struggling and has been burdened with much in her life.  Despite our differences, kindness dissolves the importance of these differences.

The world is crumbling.  In reinventing ourselves, we can create space for love, peace, hope and real joy.  It reminds me of a hymn sung regularly in church when I was young, "Let peace begin with me..."  Real change is possible with awareness and intent.  If I want change, I am the only one that can do it.  Individual drops create a dynamic ocean.

Peace springs from the seeds of kindness.  Collectively, we can change the world. 

Her Name Is....

Something happens when an inanimate object is given a name.  This is not the first time I have written about my relationship with "Sue-baru."  She was purchased from a friend a little over two years ago.  A solid well-cared for car, "Sue" got me home safely every time time I got behind the wheel; whether traversing in torrential rains perfect for hydroplaning, on roads with the potential skidding on patches undetectable black ice or plowing through a foot of snow when all you can see are curtains of white-I got home.  Despite her advancing years, she was reliable.  I felt safe. 

There is something about a car with a name.  My Great Aunt I called Auntie had a '56 Dodge named "Blue Belle."  She was oversized and curvy with ticked wool apolstery that was scratchy and resisted my attempts to slide to the middle when my mother, brother, sister and I piled into her roomy back for a test drive.  My Uncle Gene took turns close to the curb and fast so the feelers that extended from Blue Belle's body scraped the edge of the road.  Auntie screamed, "Oh , mon Dieux! 'Impossible!" (Oh my God! He's impossible!) My four year old self did not know what that meant, but I know enough that it was not good; hiding my face in my mother's embrace.  "Blue Belle" took us on picnics with fried chicken and chopped salad.  She brought Auntie and  Uncle Gene to us safely on a rare snowy Thanksgiving, but was found parked on the side of the road in Scarborough miles from their home in Portland and miles from Biddeford where they had just spent an afternoon.  When idle, "Blue Belle" spent her time in a small wooden garage my Uncle rented.  She was so shiny I could see my distorted image in her dark blue exterior.  I am not sure what happened to the Blue Belle, however she remains the catalyst for Auntie and Uncle Gene stories.  Their next vehicle was named, "The Green Hornet." My Aunt hated that car.  Not curvy like the Blue Belle; he was angular and boxy. Their relationship was short-lived.

So about "Sue", adventures with her lasted just over a year because she did not pass inspection.  The cost of labor to make the necessary repairs forced us into a decision.  We needed to part ways.   I couldn't.  She wasn't junk.  After months, I made a call to PBS car donation services.  "Sue" has been idle sitting in our driveway, but I hope that a mechanic will donate his time to renew "Sue" to service.  

This morning I will clean her out and leave the key in the glove box.  A towing company is bringing her onto her next life.  I think I will leave a Post-It note with a handwritten scrawl: Her name is "Sue-baru" and she is loved.