tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31221986345727505132024-03-13T20:19:35.179-07:00Where Do I Begin?The mind-meandering musings of a teacher, thirty years in the classroom, who, despite the enormous changes seen through the years in every single category, sees one remarkable, beautiful constant which is the hope that is our students, the children. Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17209592482787231153noreply@blogger.comBlogger237125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3122198634572750513.post-22133434920582935082015-12-08T11:26:00.002-08:002015-12-08T11:26:20.788-08:00The Birthday Check<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<b><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 24.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Lessons
Learned<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 115%;">The
Birthday Check<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“What
would you like for your birthday, Honey?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“There
isn’t anything I need, but how about if we give a check in the amount of my age
to The Salvation Army for my birthday? We could call them and make an
appointment to share the gift and the story of the birthday check with them.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Agreed.
Perfect. Sealed with a hug and a kiss. Sixty-one years of love and marriage
perpetually brought this precious couple to a very familiar place of
selflessness, compassion, and generosity. Eighty-five years meant eighty-five
dollars, and just imagine all who would be blessed and served by that! With shared
smiles and heartwarming joy, Grandma and Grandpa excitedly made the call and
secured the appointment for the very next day, Grandpa’s 85<sup>th</sup>
birthday. Dawn December 5<sup>th</sup> arrived rosy and frosty with all of the salubrious
birthday pomp and circumstance necessary to adequately proclaim 85 beautiful
years of life and living. Songs, and gifts, and cards, and cake, and a family parade
up the stairs in jammies, bathrobes, and slippers all contributed to the
lovely, delightful morning birthday rumpus! Breakfast in bed, calls from family
and friends far away, and giggles from the crazy re-lighting birthday candles
launched the perfect birthday. Peals of gleeful laughter and frolic frequently,
gracefully melt into sweet pools of memories and recollections of previous
similar birthday shenanigans, and this wonderful day was no different. Joy
emerged from the memories. Love swelled in the reminiscing. Life shared with
family is the richest and most priceless treasure on earth. Gifts and giving
are curious, lovely things and today was going to be new. It was now time to
prepare for the appointment. Grandma and
Grandpa traveled to local The Salvation Army facility with the birthday check
in hand. Grandpa, walking with his cane,
and Grandma, holding his arm, ventured into the building and were immediately
greeted by the Director and his wife who
were anxiously awaiting the arrival of this wonderful birthday chap and his
wife. They exchanged warm hellos and proceeded into his cozy office where they
sat together and unhurriedly shared stories and smiles. It had been a tough year for The Salvation
Army and spirits were a bit discouraged, until Grandma and Grandpa called about
the birthday check. Their gift was an
affirmation and a blessing that came in a moment of need bringing hope and
promise. Together they shared a
magnificent and significant time, and as the appointment drew to a close, they
joined hands and prayed with very thankful hearts. This birthday gift given with the sole intent
of blessing those in need, indeed, deeply blessed and enriched them all.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17209592482787231153noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3122198634572750513.post-23770423269824347842015-09-18T18:53:00.001-07:002015-09-18T18:53:28.838-07:00Learning That Changes Lives<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="font-size: 24.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Lessons Learned<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-size: 24.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I’ll
Remember<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Thirty
years in public and private classrooms and I am here to assure you that many of
the most significant, most powerful and life-changing lessons at school occur
outside the narrow, lock-step lines of the common core in a nebulous, necessary
place where relationships, affective learning, and meaningful connections
dwell. Where the common core seeks to throw each one on the pan balance of you
versus the standard expectation, this “other place,” by offering each one a mirror, invites each
one to look deeply inside and construct a bridge from old understanding to new.
As bridge builders, we are challenged to engage in our learning rather than
simply being a repository for information. This “other place” is one where we
encounter and grapple with friendship, courage, creativity, compassion,
bullying, aspirations, inspiration, despair, grief, hope, possibility, the “why’s,”
the “but you don’t understand’s,” tenacity, boldness, fear, loss, and every
other such thing as is simply synonymous with being human. We stand together in
this “other place,” no one better, no
one worse, just everyone trying and in the process, building bridges. One particular year, somewhere between a
spelling test and a new math unit, we encountered death. Our beloved janitor
passed away. This jolted our school world, this world we shared each day. His
unrelenting kindness touched us all.
Keeping the hallways neat as a tac, he moved from one fixing task to the
next while always maintaining a vigilant protective watchful eye as might a
soldier posted on the wall to guard those within. Gone. And in his absence we somehow felt insecure
and alone. His wife called and wondered if the students, who all meant so much
to him, would be willing to sing at his memorial service. Of course! was the unanimous
decision. With all of our hearts, with
full strong voices, with great love, and a few small tears, we shared the gift
of music with his wife, his family, and all who loved him. That memorial
service changed us all; it bonded us. It built a bridge between our hearts and
all who attended the service. It was absolutely an “other place” of learning,
lightyears away from the common core, but
elbow to elbow with life and significance and meaningfulness.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Find
here 2 links to a TeacherPayTeacher store where you will find the song written about
this experience, a children’s song called “I’ll Remember:” 1 link for simple
sheet music and 1 link for an mp4 file with lyrics for singing along:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><a href="https://www.teacherspayteachers.com/Product/Ill-Remember-Sheet-Music-when-someone-the-students-love-dies-2099548">https://www.teacherspayteachers.com/Product/Ill-Remember-Sheet-Music-when-someone-the-students-love-dies-2099548</a><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><a href="https://www.teacherspayteachers.com/Product/Ill-Remember-Sing-Along-mp4-file-when-someone-the-students-love-dies-2101013">https://www.teacherspayteachers.com/Product/Ill-Remember-Sing-Along-mp4-file-when-someone-the-students-love-dies-2101013</a><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17209592482787231153noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3122198634572750513.post-21740955837541744922015-08-11T09:04:00.001-07:002015-08-11T09:04:03.628-07:00New Year, New Chance; Right?<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<b><span style="font-size: 24pt;">Lessons Learned</span></b><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 18.6666660308838px;"><b>Time To Begin Again</b></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">Fall. A new school year. Within the first few days of school one particular year, a young student very innocently, very sincerely posed undoubtedly the most compelling question of all when he asked, “Can I change?” Wondering if he was seeking permission or questioning possibility, the teacher probed, “What do you mean?” The student, who carried, along with his new backpack, a red-flag reputation in teacher-talk, proceeded to spill his heart through the story he shared about his school experience so far. Not a good listener. A little disrespectful. Frequently yelled at. In the lowest groups. Probably a trouble-maker. Never invited to a birthday party. School was stupid. Mom told him he needed to change, and he needed to change now, because things were not going to ever get better if he didn’t. Can I change? Do I have the strength and courage necessary to turn this behavior boat around? Even if I can, can others accept this new me and change their expectations and opinions of me? If their perceptions are cast in stone and unchangeable, why should I even try to be different than the bad boy they expect? This was a tremendous amount of significant contemplating for a young mind to be processing during those early days in a school year when most were struggling to line up in the proper order and to recall their locker numbers. The teacher, realizing that questions of this sort which come right from the deepest chambers of a student’s heart, felt overwhelmingly humbled to be entrusted with this huge amount of vulnerability. The student’s eyes were wide, trusting, and demanding. This answer was to be as important as the question in terms of behavioral trajectory. With focused eye-contact , tender vocal tone, and unmistakable belief, the teacher promised that precious little boy that each year was a new year, that each day was a new day, and each one was a new opportunity to begin again with a clean slate. We all make mistakes and bad choices for which we are not proud, but apologies, grace and forgiveness are powerfully strong. It’s never too late to turn around. It’s never too late to make a new and better choice. Now is the time. Start now. This is how we learn, and this is how we grow. “Yes, you can change,” said the teacher. “This is going to be a good year,” smiled the boy. And it was.</span></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17209592482787231153noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3122198634572750513.post-83484721176225831782015-08-03T11:00:00.000-07:002015-08-03T11:00:49.000-07:00What Are You Teaching Today?<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<b><span style="font-size: 24pt;">Lessons Learned</span></b><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 18pt;">The
Lesson of Green</span></b><b><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 18pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14pt;">There
were so many things I had wondered about blindness and deafness, and not simply
the sterile, scientific, factual ramifications, symptoms, or causes of these
particular special needs, for infinite pages of information about and research
concerning blindness and deafness were readily available; undoubtedly enough
material to support a lifetime of articles to be written. No, I wondered about
the feelings associated with the everyday, ordinary, walking-through-life
experience of being blind and/or being deaf. Was the silent, dark world
sad or lonely or scary? Do you imagine sounds? What would you imagine spring to
sound like? In your imagination, do you see pictures? Colors? My dear
blind-deaf friend, who taught me more than most of my college textbooks, welcomed
these sorts of questions driven by curiosity and an earnest desire to
understand and be sensitive. He frequently chuckled at the endless stream of
questions that I would clumsily fingerspell into his hand. He was
pursuing a PhD in Computer Science and was the first true genius I had ever
met. One day, in the midst of transcribing a textbook to braille, which was
always an excellent time for listening to him explain his thoughts, ideas, and
feelings, I asked my friend, “What is your favorite color?” His instantaneous
response was, “Green.” There was not a moment’s thought. There was no pensive
pause for contemplation. Just an automatic, “Green.” He had obviously
considered this before and confidently trumpeted his answer. How? and why? were
my knee-jerk responses. His beautiful response was one I will never forget.
He smiled as his soft, clear voice replied, “I know that green is the
color of living things. Living things are hopeful and fresh and lovely. Because
of that knowledge, I am certain that green is a color that I would love.”
There was always something ever-optimistic, ever-hopeful, and
ever-believing about my most amazing friend. In his silent, dark world, he
ceaselessly pursued learning, service to others, and joy. In his silent, dark
world, he chose possibility and promise and fully discarded self-pity and
self-doubt. He believed. He knew hope. He trusted in the goodness of those
around him and generously gave of the greatness that was in him. In his silent,
dark world, he heard life’s music and saw the light. He taught me.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<u1:p></u1:p>
<u1:p></u1:p>
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<div align="center" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14pt;">Who am I
teaching today and what? How about you?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17209592482787231153noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3122198634572750513.post-24099445405712387012015-07-14T13:21:00.001-07:002015-07-14T13:21:30.769-07:00Elusive Patience<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="font-size: 24.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Lessons Learned<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-size: 24.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 18.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Patience<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 18.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Who’s
in the waiting room at the doctor’s office? Patients. What does it take to wait for something?
Patience. How do you learn to be patient? By waiting. That being said, what is
a character quality dangerously close to becoming extinct in today’s society?
Patience. Why, in a world where we strive to have it all, does this patience
quality remain so desperately elusive? Why are we so unapologetically and
unflatteringly impatient? Tragically, we’ve
handily passed this immaturity on to our children and its obnoxious effects run
rampant through classrooms, summer camps, athletic teams, and most gatherings.
Impatience has become the MO when we disagree, when we feel inconvenienced,
when we’ve been embarrassed, when we do not know what else to do with our frustration,
when we do not get what we want when we want it; impatience has become our
temper tantrum and it’s driven by insecurity and selfishness. Impatience drives
up blood pressure, destroys relationships, looks foolish, and demonstrates a
gross lack of self-control. Why do we so automatically choose this impatience
over and over and over again? I simply do not understand this. I am a teacher, a mother, a wife, daughter,
sister, aunt, and friend, and through these valued relationships I have never
found impatience to be an effective means by which to teach, learn, listen,
give, care, or share. Impatience
de-values. Impatience degrades. Impatience decides that I am more important
than you. Sad. That is just tremendously sad. That anyone would choose I, me,
and my above you or we truly reflects the empty, lonely heart that prefers
walls to bridges. We can turn this
Titanic around, however, but not without a willingness to wait, to listen, to
forgo the last word, to surrender first place, to lay down my will, and to
deliberately choose calmness, the greater good, the dream of someone else, a
quiet voice, a gentle answer, peace. We can do this. We can teach this to our
children. We can be patient. And by practicing patience, we will heal our
hearts, heal our relationships, and heal our land.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17209592482787231153noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3122198634572750513.post-32368493601458630562015-07-07T08:16:00.002-07:002015-07-07T08:16:21.664-07:00Snowboarding In July? In Illinois?<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<b><span style="font-size: 24pt;">Lessons Learned</span></b><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14pt;">The
Improbability, The Impracticality, and The Impossibility of Creativity</span></b><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">To say
yes, or to say no, that is the question. I challenge you, over the course of
one day, to count the number of times you say yes to your children and also the
number of times you say no. Then examine your heart to determine your reason
for saying each. Which is easier to say? And is it easier because it requires
less of your effort or your time ultimately? If your choice is based on which
is easier for you, well then maybe that’s simply not good enough. It’s not
practical. It’s not really even possible. It can’t possibly work. It may not
even be very safe. A prerequisite for creativity, for discovery, for
innovation, for learning, growing, understanding, wisdom, or even wondering is
certainly not necessarily safety. These things are all quite risky and often
involve stepping out of the safety box; the boring, predictable box of status
quo. Well, on numerous occasions through the course of many years raising my 3
boys the yes or no issue cropped up, and this particular day was rather typical…<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13.5pt;"> It was an ordinary July morning about to
become an extraordinary one as well as an indelibly etched memory simply
because of the word “yes,” which is creativity’s favorite word. In a world of
“no’s,” where everyone has a reason why not, why you shouldn’t or can’t, why
it’s ridiculous or a great waste of time, or what would clearly be better,
which is all about those who are the naysayers and how their ideas trump
anything thing else on the table, the brave, small voice of yes fiercely fights
to stand firm and hold open the door of possibility. Nothing crushes the
possibility or the actuality of creativity more completely than a no face, a no
spirit, or a no personality, yet no is easiest answer, because, like a hot
knife through butter, it cuts off the inefficiency and messiness associated
with creativity and keeps us all neatly in lock-step, robotic and only
superficially engaged. Once you say yes, the lid of Pandora’s box flies to the
wind and time is caught up in the swirling wonder of imagination; a place of
play and a place of seeing things differently. This is a precious place
where joy and innovation collide and burst together into a splash of
technicolor brilliance. It was pouring with rain this hot July morning, and it
had been pouring with rain on and off over a number of days in a row. Inside
activities, experiments, and projects were ongoing in every corner, when one of
my sons casually presented the genuine wish of his heart in that moment, “I
really would like to go snowboarding today.” In the nanosecond subsequent to
the proclaimed wish, my mind raced between yes and no, why and why not,
practical or impractical, possible or impossible, ridiculous or exhilarating,
and I attempted to buy a pinch of time with the obvious question,
where could we go in July? As if the entire seemingly problematic gap
between winter and summer had been fully scrutinized and mentally bridged,
hence resolved, prior to the question, the response was simply and immediately,
mud is as slippery as snow. Hmmm. Of course. So with the yes door flung
wide open, we loaded the board in the car and set out in the pouring rain to
find steep enough muddy hills adequately suitable for mud-boarding. The perfect
hill was discovered. He was absolutely right about mud being slippery as
snow. Run after run after run with increasing laughter, increasing rain
soaked mud caked clothes, and increasing competence on the mud slope, my son
lived his July wish. Joy. Test and full affirmation of what to some no faces
might have seemed a ridiculous impractical impossibility. An idea dreamed, an
idea tried, a wish fulfilled. All because of yes. Every yes most
certainly builds significant confidence toward the next new idea, which is
exactly the place where creativity loves to dwell. Are there enough yes’s at
school? Are there enough yes’s at home? Are we wearing yes faces enough so that
this next generation of dreamers can imagine, then plan, then build an exciting
and hopeful future?</span><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<u1:p></u1:p>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17209592482787231153noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3122198634572750513.post-65266324378267596402015-06-29T12:02:00.000-07:002015-06-29T12:02:16.179-07:00Read To Us, Mommy.<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="font-size: 24.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Lessons Learned<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Read
To Us, Mommy.<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Three
little boys. Three busy, inquisitive,
active, always-cooking-up-something-very-exciting boys. It was summer and there
was endless playing to do and countless adventures to be had. Experiments,
inventions, and explorations all
regularly occurred as a direct result of treasures unearthed at garage sales,
on winding bike paths, in the garden, the sandbox, the kitchen, and jumping
from the pages of books. Free, imaginative,
creative, unstructured play ruled our days, recharged our hearts, and engaged
the most important kinds of thinking. Running, flying, launching, constructing,
splashing, connecting, shoveling, climbing, swinging, shrieking, catapulting, and
every other conceivable action verb propelled us through delightful escapades.
And when exhaustion from an overabundance of enacted verbs overtook us, rest in
the form of this consistent request
always followed; read to us, Mommy. Together, we left our overheating flip-flops
at the door and snuggled on the couch with a big stack of books. One very rainy
June we even pitched a tent on the porch and read our daily pile of books in
there. Ten books per boy each week from
the library as well as shelves full of gift books, garage sale books, homemade
books, and old family books kept our literary repertoire full and fresh. For
hours we’d play. For hours we’d read. Hours upon hours upon hours upon
hours. We stretched out attention spans
and grew our imaginations as we listened to story after story and chapter after
chapter. From <i>Fox in Socks</i> to <i>Stone Fox,</i>
and
everything in between, we laughed, we cried, and we adventured. When we were too tired to run one more
obstacle course, or to chase one more catapulted and floating parachuter, or to
climb one more time to the top of the swing set, we were not too tired to be
read to. Precious, beautiful, important time, reading together. Priceless treasure. And now my boys are
grown. We all still love to lose
ourselves in the pages of a great book.
What are you doing this summer in between activities and action verbs?
With all my heart, I hope that you are gathering a stack of books and convening
with your kids on the couch or in a porch tent to read together, whereby
investing in priceless treasure. Read to us, Mommy, is a powerful, precious
thing to hear.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17209592482787231153noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3122198634572750513.post-27214519997014741452015-06-22T07:26:00.001-07:002015-06-22T07:26:35.298-07:00Happy Father's Day 2015. Thank You So Much, Dad.<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<b><span style="font-size: 24pt;">Lessons Learned</span></b><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: center;">
<b><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16pt;">Coloring
Outside the Lines</span></b><b><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div align="center" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<u1:p></u1:p>
<br />
<div align="center" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14pt;">It was a
Mary Poppins coloring book and the pages were all a very light green, which was
extremely awesome because then one could freely use a white crayon. Everyone
knows that a white crayon is the loneliest crayon in the box and rarely is
selected as it cannot be seen on the usual white art and craft paper. The white
crayon enjoyed a bold, frequent presence in my Mary Poppins pictures. My dad
and I colored together a lot, for in his wonderful innovative creativity, he
was an especially brilliant coloring accomplice. Rather than coloring in the
lines, Dad used a black crayon to extend the pictures, and liberally added hats
on heads, props in hands, hot air balloons in the sky, every sort of fish in
the lakes, additional furniture in the Banks’ home, unexpected and delightful
animals in the parks, vendors selling treasures on the sidewalks, and all kinds
of excellent, wonderful, highly imaginative and creative fun. With his black
crayon, my white crayon, and all of the colors in between, we smiled, laughed,
and created masterpiece after masterpiece, all the while, narrating the stories
of the pictures as we colored. From my earliest days, I fondly and vividly
recall being encouraged to color outside the lines. This great gift of
exercising and trusting creativity has joyfully served me and through my humble
hands has reached hearts of students through thirty years of teaching.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17209592482787231153noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3122198634572750513.post-27837820235798542132015-06-19T05:50:00.000-07:002015-06-19T05:50:00.124-07:00The Gift Of a GREAT Teacher<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="font-size: 24.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Lessons Learned<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="font-size: 24.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></b></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<b><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">The
Best Piano Teacher<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<b><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></b></div>
<br />
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 13.0pt; line-height: 115%;">She
had a stunning reputation for excellence. Unquestionably, in a very wide
geographical radius, she was the best of the best. She was the Head of Piano at
the local liberal arts college, and every music student there was indelibly
enriched to pass through her brilliant tutelage enroute to his or her degree.
She could be handed a pencil-scribbled accompaniment manuscript on opening
night, and, in the shadows of the dimly lit orchestra pit, she could carry the
entire cast of performers through the show magnificently without a single
glitch. Her excellence was their confidence. She could play anything. To me,
she was magic. As a high school freshman, I was handed many scores of very difficult
music in preparation for accompanying several of the high school choirs, as
well as vocal and instrumental soloists. As incompetent as I felt, I knew that
in lugging this bag of music to her home for weekly piano lessons, there was
hope for me as long as a little of her magic could rub off. Through the weeks
and months, she taught, she played, she explained, she modeled, she mentored,
she tutored, and she led me by the hand through this treacherous bag of music. Unrelenting,
we worked note by note and phrase by phrase without any doubt that this all
would be fully accomplished in the necessary timetable. I had my doubts,
actually, but she never did. She believed. She encouraged. She ran alongside.
She made me believe, too. The concerts and performances freshman year were
accomplished beautifully and with significant relief on the part of the young
accompanist. The sophomore, junior, and senior years flew by with increasingly
challenging and greater volumes of music, but with this precious tremendous
piano teacher leading the way, no musical challenge was insurmountable. We
worked, oh how we worked! She informed me that “impossible” was not an
adjective, it was a choice; a choice to surrender. And no student of hers would
surrender. Handel’s “Messiah.” Beethoven’s “Halleluiah Chorus” from the Mount
of Olives. Books full of vocal solos by Haydn. Trumpet solos by Vivaldi. “Mass”
by Leonard Bernstein. Gilbert and Sullivan. Rodgers and Hammerstein. Lerner and
Loewe. Scores spanning the centuries
were dissected and reassembled in her living room as this very active learning
process surely kept every single neuron firing. Side by side we worked. Side by
side I learned every drop of musical understanding I could from her. Infinitely
blessed was my life through her gifts and her time. Changed forever was my life
because of her tireless pouring of musical passion into my heart. How does one
begin to quantify or even explain this sort of teaching excellence? Genius?
Yes, I believe she was a genius. She was a genius who felt music with every one
of her senses and exuded its fire and glory through her every pore. We
corresponded for many years after I went off to college and on into a career in
teaching and the creative arts. She remained a strong encourager and a profound
voice of inspiration in my life until her passing. An unfathomable love of
music, an incomprehensible passion for teaching, these are among the treasures
she planted in my heart, and these are among the blessings I pray I bring to my
students.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17209592482787231153noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3122198634572750513.post-25967715051977164822015-06-16T14:21:00.001-07:002015-06-16T14:21:37.964-07:00Breathe.<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="font-size: 24.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Lessons Learned<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="font-size: 24.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></b></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<b><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Road
Rage, the Adult Equivalent to a Temper Tantrum<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<b><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></b></div>
<br />
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">When
driving, have you ever had someone follow you so closely that it seemed they
might climb right into your trunk? Although, your speedometer insists that you
are maintaining a suitable law-abiding pace, her face in your rearview mirror
clearly and vehemently disagrees. You could almost watch the fire engine red creeping
up her neck in flagrant, irrational rage except that keeping your eyes on the
road is a higher, albeit less entertaining, priority. What is that but sheer impatience turned
radically ugly. What drives that crazed, possessed fury laser-focused at the
stranger ahead, who has done nothing but drive in full accordance with the law?
I believe that we are forgetting how to breathe, despite the simple anatomical fact
that breathing is an involuntary process which is controlled by the brain. It
seems we frequently revert to toddler temper tantrums when we settle in behind
the wheels of our cars. While grocery shopping one day, I witnessed a full out
temper tantrum by a child who wasn’t going to get a toy at the grocery
store. The answer “no” was more than he
could take, so on the floor he flailed with kicks and screams and a bright red
face. He held his breath but continued his flurry of chaotic movements. (Not
dissimilar to our road rage neighbor.) His
mother stood quietly, patiently there, her eyes perusing the shelves for the
best-priced tomato paste. She was breathing. She maintained calmness and
stilled her heart by pausing to breathe. When the young chap realized that the
intended outcome was not to be, the tantrum downgraded and then fizzled at
which point, he began to breathe again. “No”
is the word we cannot easily accept, especially when it thwarts what we want
when we want it. No, you cannot drive faster when I am driving slower. Tantrum.
No, you cannot push me to drive faster when I have decided to drive the speed
limit. Tantrum. No, you cannot make me change my mind about speeding by
shouting at me in the rearview mirror. Tantrum. So with fire and daggers flying from your
eyes, you spew hate in my direction, simply because you cannot travel the speed
you wish. You don’t even know me and I am a little bit afraid of you already.
Adult temper tantrums are ridiculously unflattering and bespeak a desperate
narcissistic immaturity that is horrifically disappointing. If you require
immediate medical attention, please call an ambulance as they are licensed to
exceed the speed limit, and we will all pull over to let you through. If,
however, you are running late for your
hair appointment or the ballgame or even work, please just set your alarm for a
few minutes earlier thus allowing time to breathe. Breathing will certainly
make you a more respectable citizen and will incidentally help make the world a
kinder, gentler place for us all. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17209592482787231153noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3122198634572750513.post-56580598150736193692015-06-05T06:01:00.001-07:002015-06-05T06:01:31.242-07:00Own It, for Pete's sake!<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<b><span style="font-size: 24pt;">Lessons Learned</span></b><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: center;">
<b><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14pt;">What? I Didn’t
Do It</span></b><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">The knee-jerk response to
most every “shouldn’t have done it” incident is I didn’t do it. I didn’t do it.
I didn’t do it! Regardless of the age of the spokesperson, two to ninety-two,
this response more often than not remains consistently uttered, for it represents
the finest in Teflon outfitting defending one against all sorts of true or
false but always uncomfortable allegations. I can be watching a student do the
very thing he or she has been instructed not to do and when called on it will
almost unequivocally, bordering on the brazenly, assert, I didn’t do it. Many
times a day. This phenomenon is certainly not exclusive to schools and
students, however, for these students have had to be carefully taught, which
they absolutely have been. The I didn’t do it mentality and societal norm seems
as automatic to human nature as bowing for applause. I didn’t do it is
usually followed by a bit of anemic bantering along the lines of yes you did,
no I didn’t, yes, no, etc. where it then fizzles to conversational complacency,
a very safe place where it quietly rests until it is needed again. It never
gathers moss nor grows dusty waiting, though. In complacency it is deemed not a
worthy fight, and in complacency it is perpetuated with increasing
shamelessness. But it’s a lie. A big, fat, bold-faced lie. I am not sure
why we are okay with this. Over and over and over again in every walk of life
and living from classrooms to legislative halls, from snarling interactions
with referees, police officers, and parents to defensive exchanges with
neighbors and road rage enthusiasts, we fight to abscond from the
responsibility of simply owning what we do. The reality is, despite what our
insecurities may shout at us, owning our actions, fessing up to our behavior,
or begging the pardon of our screw-ups does not in fact really hurt that much.
Mild embarrassment perhaps. Or maybe a pinch of shame. But
honestly, bearing responsibility for our good or bad behavior strengthens
integrity and is honorable. We all make mistakes with great regularity for it
is in our very nature to push back a bit against the rules, even the most
compliant among us. Own it. Claim it. Confess it. Apologize for it. Then be
free of it. If you refuse to own it, it will in fact own you, and you will be
diminished by it. The automatic I didn’t do it response is<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>not good enough<span class="apple-converted-space"><b> </b></span>for
today’s students, or yesterday’s for that matter, because it doesn’t call
students forth to be strong or to be responsible, both of which they will need
to become the leaders they are capable of becoming.</span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<u1:p></u1:p>
<u1:p></u1:p>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17209592482787231153noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3122198634572750513.post-527811027876680142015-05-18T06:31:00.001-07:002015-05-18T06:31:56.245-07:00The Language of Kindness, The Language of Friendship, Everywhere the Same<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<b><span style="font-size: 24pt;">Lessons Learned</span></b><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 18.6666660308838px;"><b>Crossing Over The Bridge Of Friendship</b></span></span></div>
<div align="center" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">A graduate course in Cross-Cultural Educational Trends was going to lead me on a grand adventure across the ocean, to a cozy, beautiful town in southwest England. I was to live with someone I had never met or even spoken with, observe and serve at a Church of England primary school for about two months, and find my way to various places across England for meetings with professors and other grad students in this course. There were neither cell phones nor computers. It felt very far away. I felt very alone. I felt small and not particularly brave. Students must feel these very feelings whenever they need to start in a new school, in a new town. I would never down-play or disregard or discount or minimize the weight of that emotional strain ever again. Lesson already learned before even setting foot in the classroom or the host’s home. My host was extremely generous, compassionate and very kind. She was an outstanding teacher and an excellent friend. Our two mile walk to school each day was filled with endless conversation along narrow English country roads lined with flowers and dotted with cottages. Our daily walk took us right past a quaint, busy bakery where each morning the fresh, delicious smells beckoned us to stop for our breakfast of a warm hot cross bun. Many lessons were learned on our walks and many more lessons were learned in the classrooms and among the precious and very welcoming families. Children are the same everywhere. They love to play and sing, run and laugh, ask questions and tell stories. Families are the same everywhere. They love their kids, attend the kids’ games and concerts, and do the best they can. Neighbors help neighbors. Kind, gentle words lead to kind, gentle responses. Food brings people together. Sports bring fun. Music brings life. Laughter brings health. Communities are proud and are full of stories. As is always the case, there was significant book learning that was covered and tested in the course, but the life-changing piece of the course was unequivocally relational and emerged in the sweet connections made with these lovely, gracious new friends.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: center;">
<b><u><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">A Closing Thought To Taunton</span></u></b><u><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></u></div>
<div align="center" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">Farewell my friends of recent days<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">To heart and home you’ve op’ed your door<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">And gently guided in your ways<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">A foreigner of distant shore.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">Though words fall short when meaning’s deep<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">The best I have to share<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">Is in my heart for you to keep<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">A candle burning there.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: center;">
<i><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">darcy hill</span></i><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: medium; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; orphans: auto; text-align: start; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: 1; word-spacing: 0px;">
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17209592482787231153noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3122198634572750513.post-46698119308823588432015-04-27T08:33:00.003-07:002015-04-27T08:36:53.322-07:00Music Works<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="font-size: 24.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Lessons Learned<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="font-size: 24.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></b></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<b><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Why
Music?<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<b><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></b></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">They
were from the far east side of town, and we were from the far west. Our lives, our experiences, and our schedules
were worlds apart despite the few miles that separated us. It’s not that we
couldn’t have been friends; it’s just that our paths would never have crossed.
That is, until “The Project,” that cast us all on the same team, transitioned
from dream to enactment. Two very different fifth grade worlds were about to
collide and in that collision, be called upon to create and then perform a rap
depicting the story of our city, our shared story. It was to be a part of a much larger original
musical work entitled, “Hometown History,” and was dreamed and written to be
shared by children to an audience of all neighbors from all neighborhoods of
our hometown. It was to serve as a big
affirming hug to a city besieged by violence, unemployment, and fear. It was to be just one step toward building a
bridge of hope and trust between neighbors. The first meeting of the fifth graders occurred at the west side school and although
the air was filled with a certain amount of tentativeness, a pinch of suspicion, and a good dollop of
curiosity, the lengthy laundry list of tasks to be accomplished while together
served to quickly focus us all beyond our piddily concerns and doubts. We
attended to the business of getting the job done and that demanded immediate
cooperative effort; all hands on deck, so to speak. We worked exceedingly hard,
we learned, shared, collaborated, laughed, perfected, discussed, fell short,
tried again, cheered each other on, applauded ourselves, supported, encouraged,
questioned, explained, tried harder, kept practicing, saw progress, high-fived, and, after a couple of hours, enjoyed a pizza
lunch together with these precious new friends.
The next few weeks were committed to practicing on our own at our
respective schools. The second meeting
occurred at the east side school, and the air was filled with excitement,
anticipation and warmth as we reconvened our awesome fifth grade team. The local news media showed up to capture the
joy of this creative team of fifth grade bridge builders as they zealously
rehearsed their proud rap, and sang, danced, played, and laughed as all
children should and do from every side of town in every town around the globe.
Music brought us together. Music brought balm to hometown afflicted with fear
and distrust. Music brought laughter, peace, joy and friendship. Music built a
bridge of hope and possibility. Music always does. Music levels the playing field and invites
each one to play. Music is a universal language that transcends circumstances
and disengages exclusivity. Music links
us, binds us, welcomes us, and calls us into a shared joy. Why music? Because it heals our hearts and
makes us better.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">If
you, as a parent or a teacher, need sweet, heart-warming original children’s
music to bring joy, esprit de corps, and celebration to your family or to your
classroom, please visit the Teachers Pay Teachers store, One Arts Infusion
Collaborative, to find simple sheet music and mp4 files of seasonal and curricularly-relevant songs.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><a href="https://www.teacherspayteachers.com/Store/One-Arts-Infusion-Collaborative">https://www.teacherspayteachers.com/Store/One-Arts-Infusion-Collaborative</a></span></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17209592482787231153noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3122198634572750513.post-29942705503211801182015-04-09T09:32:00.000-07:002015-04-09T09:32:00.051-07:00Harriet Tubman<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="font-size: 24.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Lessons Learned<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="font-size: 24.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></b></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<b><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">The
Araminta Project<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<b><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></b></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Harriet
“Araminta” Tubman, a conductor on the Underground Railroad, had every reason to
surrender to the crushing despair of slavery that oppressed her, her family,
and thousands and thousands of others, but she did not succumb. Instead,
against all odds and all better judgement, she ran for her life and for her
freedom and did not stop until she possessed it. Even then, in the exhilaration
and bliss of freedom’s joy, Harriet was not content knowing that countless sisters
and brothers still remained bound in the wretched, brutal, hopeless claws of
slavery. So back she went, at inconceivable personal risk, to lead more than
300 others to freedom. Harriet made nineteen trips back, undeterred by the
$40,000. bounty which was being offered for her capture dead or alive. Courage,
perseverance, faith, hard work, generosity, patience, selflessness, confidence,
strength, and hope are just a few of Harriet’s attributes that drove her to
serve, lead, and rescue others.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">This
summer, we will gather 100 at-risk and special needs students from grades 3-5,
and teach them Harriet’s story through script, song, poetry, dance, and
spirituals, which they, then, in turn will share with parents, neighbors, and
all in the community through a collection of performances. The cast of 100 will
also take a field trip to an Underground Railroad(UGRR) Museum, walk through an
actual UGRR tunnel, and then perform Harriet’s story on the lawn of the museum
for museum guests. Learning Harriet’s story will teach them history, understanding
Harriet’s heroic attributes will inspire their hearts, and performing for
adoring audiences will fill their souls with confidence and gladness. With immense anticipation and excitement, we
are tweaking this original musical piece in preparation for the precious
children who will learn it. The TpT Store, One Arts Infusion Collaborative,
contains one of the “Araminta” songs as sheet music and as an mp4 file.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Harriet
Tubman: The Underground Railroad Sheet Music<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><a href="https://www.teacherspayteachers.com/Product/Harriet-Tubman-The-Underground-Railroad-Sheet-Music-1659828">https://www.teacherspayteachers.com/Product/Harriet-Tubman-The-Underground-Railroad-Sheet-Music-1659828</a><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Harriet
Tubman: The Underground Railroad Sing Along<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><a href="https://www.teacherspayteachers.com/Product/Harriet-Tubman-The-Underground-Railroad-Sing-Along-1675166">https://www.teacherspayteachers.com/Product/Harriet-Tubman-The-Underground-Railroad-Sing-Along-1675166</a><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Can’t
wait for the Araminta Project!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17209592482787231153noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3122198634572750513.post-89190367139028968592015-04-06T09:43:00.001-07:002015-04-06T09:43:33.481-07:00An Unruly Child<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="font-size: 24.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Lessons Learned<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="font-size: 24.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></b></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<b><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Tell
The Truth<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<b><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></b></div>
<br />
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 13.0pt; line-height: 115%;">An
unruly child. Incorrigible in many ways. Defiant. Combative. Aggressive.
Befriended by other school children through fear, in their efforts to socially
navigate the “walking on egg shells” feeling of coexistence with one so
different from them; this was the standard and daily classroom MO in room 237. Laughing
a little too loudly and often at classroom jokes that weren’t particularly
humorous in order to offer affirmation and esprit de corps to one who didn’t
fit; this too seemed a daily survival strategy. But this was no way to learn.
And this was no way to live. It was dysfunction. Head-in-the-sand, turn-a-blind-eye,
sweep-it-under-the-rug, anything-but-address-it dysfunction. What happened to
the tow-the-line, call-it-what-it-is, own-it type of honesty? Can we truly
improve if we do not face the problem? Can we truly grow if we do not seek to
acknowledge truth? Can we be set free from the demons of defensiveness over our
painful circumstances if we are unwilling to look deeply and compassionately into
those very circumstances that fuel our rage and plot a path out? Hope is not
found in the place where we ignore truth, but rather hope dwells in a place
where we humbly recognize truth and bravely, deliberately commit to a stronger
path. Hope is for every child, every student who is led by a courageous
teacher, parent, grandparent, coach, or pastor who will not settle for anything
short of honesty. Honesty is never the easy way, however, because honesty
requires engagement and disclosure, which in turn require time, vulnerability,
and trust. One child, one student, one life at a time, we must make the time
for honesty, for ultimately it is the only way each one can be set on a
trajectory of hope and possibility. Less than that will cripple the future and
diminish dreams. The unruly child didn’t
really want to be so. The unruly child wanted normalcy and simply had no idea how
to get there. The unruly child needed the honesty and compassion and strong
leadership of one who wouldn’t allow any sort of settling for less. The unruly,
lonely, hurting, fragile, despairing child daily struck out in the rage of accumulated
pain, with actions screaming “help me” and everyone standing by saying “you’re
just fine.” When did we stop telling the truth?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17209592482787231153noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3122198634572750513.post-59531654618188110852015-03-23T05:32:00.001-07:002015-03-23T05:32:25.957-07:00 The Shadow of a Yeller Pierced by the Light of a Kind Heart <div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<b><span style="font-size: 24pt;">Lessons Learned</span></b><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: center;">
<b><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14pt;">The Power of Kindness. The Strength of
Gentleness.<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">That glorious summer after
first grade witnessed the heart-soothing balm of the summer sunshine and the
comfort and calmness of home. But as June faded to July and July to August,
there loomed an anxiety-evoking reality; the beginning of a new school year. Following
a frightening first grade year with an incessantly yelling teacher, trepidation
filled this young heart in anticipation of second grade. Fear, one method
of classroom management and control, manifests in students through their
downcast eyes, rounded shoulders, and obvious crushed confidence. First
grade accomplished this for me. Just weeks from second grade, hopes were not
too high for anything better. Upon arrival in the new classroom, we
second grade students were greeted with a breath of lovely fresh air. In a
word, kindness. This kindness was to escort our class throughout second grade,
refilling our learning sails with a gentle breeze of optimism allowing and
encouraging us to bravely and excitedly explore new oceans of learning.
Kindness. A gentle voice. Happy eyes. Probably not attributes asked
about on a teacher job application, but clearly attributes deeply affecting
classroom morale and ultimately individual and collective classroom successes.
Kindness pierced through the learned fear of the previous school year and
nurtured a restored eye contact, strong shoulders and a sweet growing
confidence among all of us blessed to be in this happy second grade classroom.
I do not recall content taught nor content learned in second grade, albeit to
recognize that we all advanced to the third grade. I do recall, however, with
vivid and joyful recollection, the loving-kindness of a very gentle, very
special, very encouraging teacher, whose tender ways brought smiles and
motivated excellence. I have never forgotten to consider the tone used in
delivering words to children. Kindness matters. Kindness builds up. Kindness
outlasts content. Kindness is soothing, healing balm to the wounded spirit that
has been staggering under the excruciating weight of another’s bitterness.
Kindness lifts and restores. Kindness is free. Kindness is priceless.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<u1:p></u1:p>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17209592482787231153noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3122198634572750513.post-27394129915633837842015-03-14T18:41:00.002-07:002015-03-14T18:41:26.275-07:00You're Hurting My Ears.<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<b><span style="font-size: 24pt;">Lessons Learned</span></b><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: center;">
<b><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14pt;">In The
Classroom Of A Yeller</span></b><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13pt;">My
previous blog article reflected on the gift of a gentle tone, a peaceful
classroom, and the calmness, contentedness, and security students feel when
wrapped in the comfort of this. I learned a different lesson early on in
school. 1965-1966. First Grade. A big
year for reading and learning, as they all should be. Unfortunately, my
first grade teacher was a yeller and her perpetually frustration-laced, roarish
voice filled our classroom with fear rather than sweet wonder and encouragement.
Regardless of one’s tender years, one quickly learns the survival strategies of
not making eye contact and not rocking the boat, so as to be able to
inconspicuously fly under the classroom teacher’s radar and avoid being at the
receiving end of her verbal attacks. It’s pretty tough to be “bad” in first
grade as little ones long to love and please their teachers. Can’t
imagine the exponential increase in volume and in anger had we been
naughty. We were not naughty. We were, however, terrified, and when you
are afraid, it is extremely difficult, perhaps even impossible, to learn. Fear
has no place in a classroom, because it’s unfair and it’s paralyzing as it
squeezes the life, the joy, and the hope out of a classroom leaving nothing but
cold walls and clock hands that don’t move fast enough. I survived. I
learned to read. At home where I was not afraid. At home where I was encouraged
and smiled at. At home where no one yelled at me. I wonder how my first grade
classmates did? I played school at home. My best friend and I took turns being
the teacher. We were never like her. The lesson she taught, which has been
indelibly etched into my heart, is how not to be. I am sorry for her because
she missed the joy, the opportunity, the brilliance, the wonder, the miracles
that are forever happening in a classroom of discovery and delight. I
have been a teacher for thirty years, and now in pseudo-retirement, a
substitute teacher. Each class, each day, each year is new and exciting and
fresh and full of limitless possibility. A classroom full of children
represents the hope for the future, and to have the privilege of serving in
this way and tending to this great treasure is exhilarating. Teaching. It bears
a weight of responsibility such as no other. Precious children, uniquely
gifted, wired, inspired, filled with wonder and dreams and infinite potential
to touch, change and serve this world as no one else can; these are the
treasures entrusted to our care eight hours a day, five days a week, nine
months a year, every year throughout their most formative years. With clay feet
and great weakness, I stand before each class, each day in full knowledge of my
inadequacy. What have I to give them but love, encouragement, and the best of
what I have and am. I am honored and humbled and thankful to be a teacher.</span><span style="font-size: 13pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<u1:p></u1:p>
<u1:p></u1:p>
<u2:p></u2:p><br />
<div align="center" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17209592482787231153noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3122198634572750513.post-86230898912449731422015-03-12T15:06:00.001-07:002015-03-12T15:06:12.651-07:00No Need For Loud, Harsh Answers<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="font-size: 24.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Lessons Learned<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="font-size: 24.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></b></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<b><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">A
Gentle Answer<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<b><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></b></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 13.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><b>“A
gentle answer quiets anger, but a harsh one stirs it up,” Proverbs 15:1.</b><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 13.0pt; line-height: 115%;">In grocery
store aisles and school hallways, on sports field sidelines and in performance
hall parking lots, we hear parents yell at their kids and then kids yell back
at their parents, and back and forth and back and forth, escalating ever
escalating as if volume alone seizes the final, most authoritative word. We
shout to assert control yet this very shouting bespeaks the control we have
already so very clearly lost. We shout because the loudest, most ferocious bark
belongs to the alpha boss dog, right? Or does it really? I believe we shout
because we have not effectively learned how to lead. One of the most amazing classroom
volume control strategies I have ever witnessed in thirty years of teaching,
was demonstrated by a young, shy, gentle, peaceful teacher who never raised her
voice above a hushed tone with students in her classroom. Their first grade
voices matched her quietness. No voice was ever raised, and it was a
beautifully calm room, lovely for learning. They listened for her voice and in
that stillness there was comfort and security. Conversely, several doors down
the hallway was a screamer whose classroom was invariably on the brink of
chaos. By afternoon each day in the loud room, the decibels had been ratcheted
up to an ear drum piercing roar, with everyone fighting to be heard including
the teacher. Exhaustion. Headaches.
Frustration. Why do we shout? Do we lack the confidence necessary to be still,
to be gentle, to be one who brings peace? In a world that regularly shouts its
demands and demands its own way, a gentle soul who patiently listens and
quietly responds is truly one of great strength and wisdom. Our children have tender hearts and ears and
need the careful tending of one who teaches and leads with calmness and
gentleness, both at school and at home. We all need this, no matter how thick
and hard our protective walls have become over time. Deep down, we long for
this. A gentle answer, a humble
response, a quiet calming word breathes peace into our harried hearts. Try it.
Be still. Turn the volume down. Respond with calmness, even if the impulse is
to roar. Hold back that lion and watch the gentle response that returns to you.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17209592482787231153noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3122198634572750513.post-57129375760702719542015-03-03T08:28:00.002-08:002016-05-16T09:32:29.555-07:00Gift Giving...<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="font-size: 24.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Lessons Learned<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="font-size: 24.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></b></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<b><span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Once
Upon A Birthday<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<b><span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></b></div>
<br />
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">February
birthdays in the Midwest will typically be wrapped in soft white mountains of
snow, bone-chilling temperatures, and icicles, all necessitating multiple layers
of flannel and wool stuffed under large, toasty, though quite unflattering
stadium coats. This year was no different. It was birthday Saturday morning and already
this teacher’s inbox was filled with lovely, warm words of blessing and friendship
and kindness and love; words and happy wishes of deep and precious value, humbling,
but making glad this teacher’s heart. A perfect start to a birthday. With
coffee in hand, iced snowflakes painting the windows, and slippered feet
propped comfortably upon a chair, the birthday teacher followed some early
morning reading with a bit of fleece scarf tying. Knowing that a birthday
morning meeting would bring this teacher to a downtown neighborhood where
countless many would be acutely feeling the effects of the sub-zero temps, the
thought of bringing a large pile of fleece scarves to a nearby bus stop seemed
the right and perfect birthday gift to give. With more than two dozen scarves folded and
stacked chin high, the birthday teacher entered the bus stop shelter and placed
them on the bus waiting bench. A gentleman approached to wait for the bus and
the teacher encouraged him to be warm and take a scarf. He didn’t speak, but as
the teacher left for the downtown meeting, the gentleman wrapped a fleecy blue
plaid scarf around his neck. The gift of
giving is such a precious heart-filling gift. It indeed was a happy birthday.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17209592482787231153noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3122198634572750513.post-37663733125696390412015-02-25T20:26:00.001-08:002015-02-25T20:26:12.680-08:00TpT<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="font-size: 24.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Lessons Learned<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="font-size: 24.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></b></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<b><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Teachers
Pay Teachers Became An Answer<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<b><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></b></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">In
1981, a Master Teacher, who was my cooperating teacher, offered a
thought-provoking question and subsequent challenge, that in answering and
accepting, completely set the trajectory of my teaching for the next 30 years.
She inquired, “What is your passion?” And immediately chased this query with
the bold assertion, “Because it will take all you have and are and believe in
and will sacrificially pour yourself into to reach these desperately at-risk
students.” I love music. I love to write music and play music. “Perfect,” she
nodded. “Then music it is. We will teach them to learn by inspiring them with
music.” The children helped me write lyrics which became songs, their songs.
Their songs contained their words and those words became sight words and gradually
but with never-ending zeal, we learned to read their songs. In learning to read
their songs, they learned to read. We sang. We learned. We reveled in the
wonderment of learning. They taught me the power and the joy of using music to
help students engage with content. From then on and for the next 30 years, I
have seen over and over and over again, the power and the joy of sharing music
to support and enhance all curricular content. Through the years, my wonderful, courageous
students have basked in the blissful and confidence evoking fun of music to
learn. Even Bloom and Gardner, I believe, would have smiled broadly upon the
highly creative, wildly engaging musical academics occurring day after day.
Beautiful! Now, so very many years later, however, hundreds and hundreds of songs written through
all of these years to support learning have remained unscored and consequently
un-sharable, inaccessible, and stashed
on a shelf, for in the flurry of life
and living as a teacher and a mom, taking precious time to learn to score music
was of lowest priority. The songs remained packed in my memory with lyrics
scribbled on loose sheets of paper in tattered, well-worn folders. With
retirement last June came a gift of time; time to learn to score music and time
to learn to share music. But where? Then came the strong suggestion of Teachers
Pay Teachers, a brilliant online marketplace for the buying and selling of
excellent and highly creative educational resources, as well as a fabulous network
of support, encouragement, and help for all educators. So last mid-September,
Teachers Pay Teachers (TpT) became the home of my new “music to learn” store
called, One Arts Infusion Collaborative, and step by step, note by note, I am
learning to transcribe those songs that have been swirling and dancing in my
mind for an entire career. TpT has
provided a forum, a venue, a storefront, a chance for the previously
inaccessible to be shared.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17209592482787231153noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3122198634572750513.post-71287048259272230292015-02-20T11:02:00.001-08:002015-02-20T11:02:31.909-08:00Only When the Snow Flies...<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<b><span style="font-size: 24pt;">Lessons Learned</span></b><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: center;">
<b><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14pt;">Embrace the
Winter</span></b><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14pt;">Out the
back door of our home in the country was a gigantic hill covered with trees,
bushes, and berries of various sorts, and wandering circuitously through them
all were paths, some secret and some not as secret. These paths were the routes
to countless adventures upon which the children, grandchildren, Labrador
Retrievers, and other friends would meanderingly rove throughout all four very
distinct seasons of the year. But one particular path contained no winds or
bends; it was stick straight. It was the fastest way to the bottom of the hill,
and it was the winter season’s path of choice among the crowd of adventurers.
It was the toboggan run, this path that was carved straight down through the
trees. Upon this path, upon the toboggan, the riding team could quickly gain
enough speed to send the forested world whizzing past in a white and chilly
blur of excitement. With dogs frolicking and barking, pig-tails and snow wildly
flying, raucous laughter rippling among the woods, and several evel knievel
cousin toboggan drivers taking turns at the helm, time danced away on the
wintery breeze for these rosy-cheeked adventurers on the back of the toboggan.
Once through the trees that hugged the steep, straight path, the toboggan would
burst out full-steam into the vast open field that rolled in gentle downward
waves across twenty acres. Hanging on to each other fiercely yet
hilariously with woolen-mitted hands, carefully keeping all appendages tucked
safely and streamliningly onboard, the esprit-de-corps riders enthusiastically
chased the previous riders’ path hoping beyond hope to exceed their distance
record. Then together, with all woolly hands on the rope, the rider team, knee
deep or more in snow, would lug the beloved toboggan back to the hilltop for
another greatly anticipated run by another anxiously awaiting rider team.
Over and over and over and over again we learned to play, to share, to help, to
be on a team, to love the outdoors, to take turns and be glad for each other,
to drive, to ride, and that laughter and cousins and winter are another perfect
recipe for awesomeness.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<u1:p></u1:p>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17209592482787231153noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3122198634572750513.post-31041116038222982782015-02-10T07:58:00.000-08:002015-02-10T07:58:11.044-08:0019 years ago...<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<b><span style="font-size: 24pt;">Lessons Learned</span></b><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14pt;">Valentine,
The Gift of Time Is A True Gift of The Heart</span></b><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">Twenty four hours. In the
pediatric unit of a hospital. Any time spent here with your child for a reason
other than visiting someone else is equivalent to eternity. RSV, or respiratory
syncytial virus, was the diagnosis for my nine month old. His breathing was
raspy and labored and the discomfort his little body felt from this struggle
left him so very restless and irritable. My heart ached watching him fight this
insidious enemy as in his hospital crib he attempted to sleep tethered to wires
and monitors. With permission, I lifted him from the foreign, strange-feeling
crib and cradled him in my arms where rest and a bit of sleep more easily
came. All night long, I prayed over this angel in my arms, as the
excellent but stretched-way-too-thin medical staff frantically ran from room to
pediatric room tending monitors and needs. Between RSV and the Rotavirus, on
that particular night during that particular year, every pediatric bed was
filled, and sick, hospitalized children were filling beds in other units. Two
children died. Rocking and praying my son through the night, there was
peace in our little room despite the overwhelming and overarching anxiety
wrapped around a stay such as this. The hospital night in that pediatric
unit was noisy with the cries of children whose bodies were in tremendous
distress and I wept for them through the night as their painful, fearful cries
went on. I asked our nurse why their parents were not allowed to hold these
children to calm their little bodies? Their parents were not able to stay the
night, for circumstances and reasons that demanded they not stay. These little
ones cried and cried alone, and I cried wishing I had more arms and more time
to hold and rock and pray over these other precious lives struggling with sickness.
Sometimes there simply is not enough time to do all that we need to do
because life is busy and hard and full of choices that frequently leave you
feeling that none of the options are really that wonderful. Perhaps this is the
place where we need to step in for one another and fill in those gaps with our
time. We all have hands and hearts and arms to hold and rock. We all have bits
of time here and there that we could offer up to help. All we really need is a
desire to do something about the cries filling the hallway. </span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17209592482787231153noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3122198634572750513.post-91141252879200118682015-02-03T07:24:00.002-08:002015-02-03T07:24:33.120-08:00Quiet. Stillness. Peace. Winter.<div align="center" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: center;">
<b><span style="font-size: 24pt;">Lessons Learned</span></b><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14pt;">Winter’s
Lesson</span></b><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">Winter has arrived here.
That wise, celebrity groundhog has proclaimed and affirmed what we all
unquestionably know will be the case; another six weeks of wintry weather. It
is winter, and our world is frozen, hushed, and cloaked in shimmering whiteness.
The snow is deep and has been swept into impassable drifts along both highways
and country roads. The whistling wind sneaks into homes through unseen cracks
supremely taxing even the heartiest of furnaces and demanding multiple layers
of woolen sweaters and fleecy blankets for all inhabitants. It is winter. Rosy
cheeks, piping hot homemade soup, and fireplaces a’blaze are the order of the
day, and we smile for each delicate, unique snowflake that lands gently on a
tongue. Although the wintry conditions are certainly extreme and
undeniably dangerous, there is a stillness and a peace and a wonder-filled beauty
about the snow. It’s a sparkling, chilly blanket that frosts the
landscape like a fluffy dollop of butter cream frosting atop a scrumptious
cupcake. To stand outside in the snow, to walk in it, to traverse it in
snowshoes or skis is to understand the stillness of it, which without the
experience of it is completely indescribable. The chaos and cacophony of life
at its outrageously presto pace, in its constant stereophonic dissonance, with
its hyper-stimulation of lights, colors, and images can indeed numb the senses
with all of its uber-overdoneness. How can we be still? How can our
children understand peace? How can we learn to quiet our hearts and rest our
souls? Beneath a blanket of snow, the earth sleeps for an entire season,
animals hibernate, and farmers move indoors and rest their fields. In the
stillness of the winter, the stars in the night sky seem to twinkle with
greater intensity, the creaking and humming sounds of the forest are seemingly
amplified, and if far enough north, the glory of the northern lights dancing
across the heavens in surreal technicolor splendor is beyond breath-taking. In
stillness there is infinite room for creativity and imaginative pensivity
because those things that crowd and clutter our lives and bring much noise are
delightfully absent. When there is stillness or peace around, it feels somehow
easier to find a quiet place within. As we warm our hands during the coldness
of this winter, may we be reminded to also quiet our hearts, for in the
quietness, in the stillness, in the peace there is a longed for and much needed
joy, comfort, rest, and restoration.</span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17209592482787231153noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3122198634572750513.post-45973844042316674642015-01-23T19:21:00.003-08:002015-01-23T19:21:51.810-08:00Each Chapter of Life Has A Learning Curve...<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="font-size: 24.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Lessons Learned<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Keep
Learning<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">After
thirty years as an elementary teacher, the time had come for a change. Changes
in family circumstances, changes in perspective, changes in health, changes
visible and invisible, changes subtle and changes huge, none of which are
particularly comfortable or comforting, all drive the move into a new chapter. Life is change, really, and each new chapter
comes with significant blessings and trials, smooth water and rough through
which we must faithfully and fearlessly navigate. I am thankful that I walk
with God and that He holds me up, for I know that on my own I would crumble. So
one plunges into the deep end of a new chapter, and with that comes most
assuredly a restructuring of a daily schedule. Perhaps more available time,
perhaps less, but in any event, it is accompanied by a need to re-establish
time priorities. In my case, a bit of time became free, and with that
acknowledgement came a plethora of choices. As a teacher, one recognizes the
critical importance of remaining forever a perpetual learner, because seeking
to more fully understand and comprehend in any and all arenas of knowledge,
keeps one’s mind sensitive and sharp. Hmmmm, what to do? Well, from the time I
was about fifteen years old, I have been writing melodies and filling those
melodies with poetry on one topic or another. Hundreds of songs, written on
scraps of paper, cafe napkins, inside the back cover of old textbooks, and
filling pages of piles of composition notebooks, have spilled from my heart
onto paper of one type or another but have never made it to transcription on
musical staff paper. Written down lyrics with the melodies locked for forty
years in my mind has surely resulted in countless forgotten and lost songs, but
what about now? So in some widows of newly available time, with staff paper, a
pencil, and many erasers in hand, I have begun the arduous, albeit rewarding,
task of attempting to unlock and transcribe melodies, of attempting to learn
how. Note by note over endless hours, recalling, playing and re-playing,
referring to the formatting of already published music, I learned and practiced
simple, very simple transcription and began for the first time to see the music
that had only previously swirled in my mind and heart. Page upon page of
children’s music, simply written, has emerged. Music that had been specifically
written to enhance and support curricular content, to provide opportunities for
multi-modal instruction, and to engage higher level questioning and deeper
level thinking was now on the paper before me. It is a bit overwhelming, probably
not dissimilar to meeting someone for the first time after hearing about that
individual for years and years. There is much more learning to occur and much
more music to transcribe, but it has begun. Stuffing it in the piano bench upon
completion seemed unsuitable and maybe somewhat wasteful, so subsequently, I
have opened an online Teachers Pay Teachers Store to sell it, to share it. My
store is called <b><i>One Arts Infusion Collaborative</i></b>, and gradually I will fill its
cyber shelves with scores of children’s educational sheet music forty years in
the making.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17209592482787231153noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3122198634572750513.post-13084042043688191172015-01-13T05:59:00.002-08:002015-01-13T05:59:55.560-08:00Just Love More. <div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<b><span style="font-size: 24pt;">Lessons Learned</span></b><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14pt;">2015. New
Year. New Hope. New Promise. New Commitment.</span></b><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14pt;">In a
word, love. Thirty years of teaching, twenty-nine years of marriage,
twenty-seven years of parenting, and fifty-five years of life have taught me
that in triumphs and trials and everything in between, a strong, good answer to
every circumstance and every relationship is simply to love more, to be patient
more, to be gentle more, to be sacrificial more, to listen more, to believe and
hope and encourage more. The world is hard and clearly in need of gentle
helpful hands and tender serving hearts. When burdens become too great to bear,
we so frequently stagger alone under the crushing weight of it all somehow
erroneously believing that either others do not want to be troubled or even
worse that in sharing a burden we are admitting weakness or that something
about our lovely façade is less than all we are hoping it will appear to
be. We are designed to live in community. Together we are stronger.
What we share in common is far more important and valuable than the
differences that divide us, and yet the differences draw fire and judgment from
our bully pulpits of dogmatic and highly opinionated insecurities. The
differences erect thick, impenetrable walls of fear and distrust. We need each
other desperately still we struggle to move past the firing squad of
suspicion. Rather than exercising compassion, we often opt to exert
power. Rather than crossing the street, we pull the blind and lock the
door. Rather than engaging, we turn a blind eye and blame our accursed,
albeit self-created, busy-ness. In our classrooms, in our homes, in our
neighborhoods, each one we see is in dire need of love, acceptance,
affirmation, connection and the joy that these gifts bring. These gifts
are free to give and to share and yet their value reaches infinitely beyond the
bounds of the world’s greatest treasures. It’s a brand new year. The slate is
clean and ready for the rewriting of a fresh inspiring chapter. Perhaps it is time to make some changes.
Perhaps it is time to try loving more, giving more, serving more, caring more.
Perhaps it is time to build bridges of hope and trust, for the only tool
necessary is one that has existed in our hearts from the very beginning; love.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17209592482787231153noreply@blogger.com0