Writing Hiatus

For anyone paying attention to the progress (or lack thereof) of this blog, I give thanks. I have poured my heart's desires and passion for expression into eight-hundred plus posts for the past four years or so. I have explored and detailed the crucible of the prison writing workshops, recorded my clumsy construction of the New Mexico place, and ranted about how wrong-headed education has become. It's been good for me, and I hope you got something out of it too. Like many undertakings, however, this blog has a life span. I won't say it has been a failure, but it has languished. I don't know exactly why, and why doesn't much matter anyway, but it's time for a break. My energy has ebbed, and I feel a bit defeated by circumstances. I hope to be back soon, but don't know for sure. So hasta la proxima and  quiero que vayan con Dios.

Dying -- and Living -- Well

A study analyzing thousands of obituaries found one word recurring more often by far than any others. That word was "help." Yes, when a measure is taken of a life well-lived, it is the role we played in helping others that counts for more than anything when the final story is told. Of course, that help can come in the form of a discovery, or raising awareness, or working for greater freedom, but it is in helping something larger than one's self that makes for what people remember. If one is to live knowing that, one might shift a priority or two, if dying well matters in the end.*

* From TED talk https://www.npr.org/2018/09/07/645360945/lux-narayan-what-do-obituaries-teach-us-about-lives-well-lived

Where Have All the Teachers Gone?

Paperwork, assessment obsession, "backward design" (appropriately named), scripted lessons. The list goes on. What counts as important in education is the test, the data, the results, and a standard pathway to get those results. Regimentation, one might say. And, for me, it's the loss of teaching, the interaction, the dialogue, the shared humanity, the unplanned, teachable moment, the surprise, the abandoning of the lesson to address something important, the creative problem solving, the collaboration, and relationship one develops when lights are going on that marks the tragedy that is education now. In my particular situation, administrators have taken over the training of graduate teaching assistants. Time is now spent going over curriculum that is drawn from corporate textbooks, assessment and more assessment, and working backwards from the "outcomes." It's a top-down thing now. Grades are the thing. Any agency I had as a teacher and professional development leader, the "grass-roots" of teachers teaching teachers, has been squeezed into an afterthought of optional discussion. Not surprisingly, teachers who can, leave the profession. Burnout and attrition are high. Teacher preparation is low. We all know the litany. But where have they gone, all those lovely, bright lights, those passionate learners, the ones who loved to teach, the ones students loved? Where?

Exuviation

It starts when you leave the city and its barrage of noise, its assaults on your attention, the mad rush to pull you out and away from yourself. It continues as the days pass and you notice subtle changes in where the sun rises, its passage through the sky, the length of shadows on the floor. You notice that there are four planets visible in the sky, and you see the International Space Station float overhead while the sun sets. You see the Summer Triangle, Cygnus the swan, and you wait for Orion. You see storms form over the tall mountains, watch them grow, see them drop their loads of rain and then vanish. Then you see the grass turn the land green and the sunflowers carpet the valley in yellow. But mostly you listen for the right word, the right image, and you pay homage to patience, precision, method, mindfulness, technique, and craft. You are a disciple now of the wind and sun and winding order of the cosmos, and you try to remember what it was the ones before you kept saying about your place in the order of things, your need to tell a story. You do the work of slotting yourself onto the wheel of noticing, of recording, of taking the infusion of peace and work that is offered to you. And you give thanks.

Traveling By Bike

On the first day, oh lost one, you gave all you had saved up to get over that first big mountain pass. That was good, because after that you had to pay for what you needed with strength you didn't have to easily give away. But you found it, and you did what you had to do. Yours was not the easy way of youth and condition and fitness or of prestige and power and authority or privilege. You couldn't just twist the throttle or step on the gas to get down the road and out of the rain. You couldn't pull rank either or click your fingers and have an Uber give you a ride. You had to push yourself through the sweat and pain. Yes, the body had to work, but the real work was your spirit. That pulled on your wits and heart and kindness. You paid in full with what you had to dredge up from the core of who you really are without the trappings of money and familiarity and an easy pass. It was character that you wanted to live on -- real, honest-to-god character (that and some really expensive camping gear). So you lived through the cramps and the doubts and the vulnerability and the mistakes and the adversities of the days in search of what you are really made. Did you find it? Well it was right there in front of you when all that distracting baggage was wiped off your lenses. It was in the way you responded to what came to you. It was how you met the sore body that wanted to just take the day off every morning after a hard day.You botched a few things, but mostly, you showed up and met situations with humor and good faith. You'll have to live with that and wrap it in a story that takes you from here forward. Like it or not, it's what you got, what you have to work with, what you have to remember. When you see others pushing against the limits of privilege, wealth, social standing, remember what it was like, and extend a hand. 

Wrapped Up

It is so easy to be here, the northern Midwest. The place is like a an old pair of jeans that has taken on my shape and feels just right. I relax into the language of the place, the values, the buildings, the rusty cars, the polite, blonde barista, the culture. Not surprisingly, a big part of that is how white it is. Affluent too. Clean and mowed and tidy. It's home, I have to say. I could just snuggle down into the comfort of it and sleep for years, decades maybe. I'd likely put on some weight and get a much bigger vehicle. I fit into the stew from which I emerged long ago, dripping with, and imprinted by, my moment, the land, the smells, the colors. Even the flowers comfort me, familiar friends who wave at me in the breeze as I pass. Might as well just roll into the arms of all that makes this place home more than any other, and let it fill me, take me over. It feels sweet to go under, and I let go the need to push further into something other than here. I have grown tired, so tired. This quilt I wrap myself in quiets the coming storm, the one that you can hear deep in the ground, a distant, low thunder. 

Minnesota Memory

They grow up out of the loamy soil and fill the car. Uncles, now old or gone, are young again, and I hear their voices. They stand with a beer in hand and laugh with their brothers. They don't notice a younger me watching, absorbing, imitating. They talk work and things but stay away from feelings, from talk about love, from fears of what might come next. So-and-so got a new boat; and that new Impala, the '65, has a curvy shape, a wing over the the rear wheel. They say the 350 is the best ever. But there is more going on between the lines. I can see how they love each other but hold back while they lean into the time they have together. There have been wars, a brother lost to alcohol. They are bound to each other. I want to know how to do this thing they are doing, this being a man, so I watch closely. I am nine years old. Their voices fill the car as I drive past the rolling, verdant, fecund hills and waters of Minnesota. This is my homeland, my roots, and the voices are everywhere. I worry that I have not lived up to the job given to me by these men of my past. I worry that somehow I have failed to become the kind of man I was supposed to be. I shake my head and the voices fade back into the ground. I am here, watching and listening and trying to fill out this body that is now much older than they were, back then, showing me how it was done.