Soapbox: The Way I see Things

She sat, fingers poised above the keyboard, wanting to write – but before the words would come, she had to gather her thoughts from far reaches,

And as she began to funnel words in, out, through, it occurred to her what a risk it was to begin to write:

To face an empty space, a blank future, without of sense of where things were really going or how, knowing that it could turn out well, or turn out poorly, and thinking that she had some control over it all but really, how much,

And it occurred to her that, perhaps, this musing might be metaphor for all things dark and scary,

And that perhaps she should take a deep breath, dive down and spend time exploring those blue-black waters,

But she decided that particular thought would be better served if it were once again tucked back in the drawer for another, more ready, day.

I love standing in the school hallways at arrival and dismissal time. It’s like a barometer that gives me readings of a different kind of atmosphere.

Yesterday, as the bell rang for our half day early dismissal, the kiddos were released from classes, backpacks full of materials, heads full of instructions. Some even stopped to give me a big fat hug. The mood around me was…inexplicably…summer.

I can’t explain it. Maybe it was the warm weather we’ve been having. Maybe it was anticipation of a week of at-home learning before our spring break. Maybe – and this is my guess – it was the sense that we might be looking at an even longer time away and nobody really knows what that will look like.

We stand face-to-face, staring into the wide-open yawn of time. These days at home are going to feel really long, and even more uncertain. And just like with summer, it is upon us to fill our days well, to bring the sense of structure and predictability that keeps us from breaking loose from our moorings.

None of this truly hit me until today, when I noticed that despite having to report for professional collaboration time on Monday, I had shifted into summer mode. Which, for me, translates into expressing insanely productive energy around the house because I am physically unable to downshift once school ends. In the hours since I have been home, I:

*Cleaned out the playroom
*Set up a home office for myself
*Organized all extra food and supplies onto shelving
*Cooked dinner for my family
*Arranged and began assembling a give-away pile
*Wiped down all kitchen surfaces, switches and door knobs
*Did 3 loads of laundry
*Cleaned out my closet and drawers
*Caught up on school work
*Called my mother (always!)
*Rearranged the living room furniture
*Ordered and assembled materials for at-home workouts
*Inventoried and organized the fridge and freezer

Yes. I have a problem. I can’t help myself. I’m a wind-up toy that just has to run down before I can let things be. My entire family knows that the best thing they can do during the first two weeks of summer is to just. Stay. Out. Of. My. Way.

The trick to being a wind-up toy, of course, is running down without becoming run down. I’m always trying to find that balance.

In the meantime, I’ll be over here organizing files and activities for my students. Or cleaning the oven. Or scrubbing the floors. Or or or…

Like many teachers across the country, I am eyeball deep in preparations for our district to go online with our learning. Like many teachers, I’m putting an immense amount of time and energy into thinking about how I will preserve the relationships I have with my kiddos while I maintain adequate “social distancing.”

What’s so very hard about the whole situation is that I will just…miss their faces. I will miss the joking around together. I will miss our dismissal dance parties, our musical partner activities, and I will miss the sheer joy and love my kids have for all things learning. I’ve thought about a few ways to maintain those relationships, and I’ve got a few ideas, including:
-Google chats for kids who want to talk about their writing
-Video “pep talks” from me where I share encouraging messages for my young readers and writers
-An open forum for them to post videos, writing they’re proud of, self-made memes and the like

But the one thing that dawned on me today? One thing I’m crazy excited for?

Well….it stretches back probably about two decades to an assignment I used to give to my students. At the start of the year, I would ask my students to scope out their houses for a cozy place to read. Kids came up with all kinds of things: their closets, their beds, under the dining room table…you name it.

Then, once a week, their homework would be FYCPAR:
Find Your Cozy Place And Read.

It was, by far, the most popular homework I have ever assigned. (That, and the Shakespearean insults. But I digress.)

So today, as I was considering how to continue my students’ writing instruction, it hit me.

Ladies, Gentlemen and Non-Binary Friends, I hereby give you:

FIND YOUR COZY PLACE AND WRITE.

I’ve found mine, and I can’t wait until my students show me their hidey-holes, their nooks, their crannies, their soft and safe spaces.

I don’t have to like that I’ll miss my loveys for however long. But I can savor and appreciate the time and space we will create, however we can.

If you need me, you know where I’ll be…

It seems as though there are fewer and fewer places to hide from the spectre of Coronavirus. Even those of us who set out on a conversation trying to discuss something, anything other than the impending wave, there is no escaping the momentum of what surrounds us.

And so, in the midst of swimming, paddling, gasping for breath, I surface for a gulp of air to bring you something, anything other than the impending wave. Because I am sure I will write about it. Just…not today.

Today, amid all the craziness, this guy on my desk caught my eye.

This…is Ruffus. He’s my buddy. We’ve been together pretty much since my first year of teaching in Loudoun County, Virginia, and he’s followed me across three states, four districts, eight schools, at least fifteen classrooms and twenty-five years of teaching.

We’ve been through all kinds of things together. He’s been my demo dog for math lessons, a companion animal to many students, and he’s been the “talking stick” for countless class meetings and heart-to-heart conversations.

He may be just a tiny six inches long. His fur may be fading, and the paint on his eyes may be chipping away bit by bit, and his belly might be held together with some very amateur stitches in absolutely the wrong color.

But he’s seen so much, and heard so much, and done so much.

I think I’ll keep him around a little while longer.