the mud

When I first started teaching 25 years ago, (yes, this is something of an anniversary) I sat in my parents living room during August making sailboats out of construction paper.  Each sailboat had a different color sail and each child's name was lovingly printed on the sail.  I think I had to make 26 sailboats that year for my sixth grade class.  I then cut out the letters "Sail into September."  I taped them all up in the windows of my classroom.  I had pictures of blue skies and pink sunsets in mind when I wrote that, and although I know none of my students at Saint Luke's sailed, I thought that I was setting the stage for a peaceful entry into school.  It was cute and that was part of what I was going for. Nowadays, not so much.  I have dinosaurs on my bulletin board (they are pretty cute) and we are "Digging New Discoveries."  The work implied is intentional.  Gone are my visions of pink sunsets and peaceful harbors and smooth seas.  September, for a stu

The other day I ran away to the beach.  It felt good to just get in the car with three of my kids and escape for a few hours.  My mother met us there.  My brother left work early and met us too.  It was just one of those days where you feel you have to hold onto the fleeting days  July days.  (I'm tired of thinking already that summer is going too fast.  It's only July!)  As we sat there we passed around sunscreen and reapplied and found the right ones for face and knees and wet slick bodies.  We debated the merits of 15 vs. 85.  That's when my mother chimed in.  "You know, over 15 is no more effective.  It makes no difference."  This has been her mantra for as long as I can remember.  Let me explain. My mother is beautiful.  She has an inner beauty that radiates through her dark molasses eyes that can open up to you and welcome you in.  She played basketball for most of her life and is still fit - her leg muscles attest to that.  I've seen her walk the be

Last week, after the last books had been packed, the last papers returned, the last old markers set aside for recycling, and the last of the last had been done, we said good bye to our fifth graders.  In morning graduation ceremonies, the first graders, all in their white shirts and khaki pants, stood tall, sat quietly, and sang loudly, and then it was on to the fun stuff.  We held a picnic on the playground.  The boys ate lunch on blankets and ran and yelled and sucked on popsicles and played with balloons.  Every once in a while one came in for water and asked when we were having math.  "There is no more math today.  Today is just play!"  They weren't sure whether to be happy or sad.  Finally, when the picnic was over and when they were utterly exhausted from all the festivities, I brought them in to the rug one last time.  They sat there with sweat and dirt trickling down their faces, looking now officially like second graders.  But they also looked at me like one more

Last week I attended the very sad funeral of my cousin.  He was a firefighter.  He was an exemplary firefighter, as I learned listening to the beautiful eulogies of his friends and fellow firefighters.  Outside the funeral home, the fire engines lined up and displayed his equipment.  His jacket, his helmet, his boots.  Among all the life-saving equipment there, the oxygen masks, the ladders, the axes, the ropes, nothing could save his life.  I was caught, though, by the rope.  I had recently listened to a book on tape, Home Safe, and in it the author uses an analogy of "the hold knots on the rope of life."  Hold Knots - the things we can hold onto when life gets slippery, when life seems to be slipping out of our grip.  The thing is I can't remember what she said.  What are the hold knots of life?  Was it friends, was it laughter?  There are so many things I could plug in there.  The funny thing about a book on CD is that I can't go back and look for the page.  I have