#PoetryFriday - Why We Need Poetry

I am super happy that Carol over at Carol's Corner is hosting this week's Poetry Friday. I started following her a year or so ago after participating in the March Slice of Life Challenge, and love her reflective writing style. Make sure you stop over on her blog and check out all the wondrous words happening this week!

Oh, what a week is the last week of the school year! I jokingly call it the exact longest and shortest week of the year. It often feels that way to me, with all the rushing about and organizational needs entailed in packaging up the world that existed inside one year of school.

The other day a friend of mine shared a great TED talk with me, focused around the idea of why we need poetry in our lives. I have been looking forward to sharing it here this week! And am possibly even more excited about watching the dozens of poetry related Ted talks I found here -- hmm, 36 current videos means one each week of school next year, right?


I don't believe you have to be a huge poetry buff to love and appreciate this video. Burt says he fell in love with poetry because he wanted to "know how and why." I loved hearing this, because just yesterday I talked about how, as a writer, I often wonder about the how's and why's of a given situation. 
No wonder I love poetry so much -- a poem is a world of patterns that explore the how and why of the universe, in a way.
The second stanza from the first poem Burt discusses in his talk is shared in part below (and you can read the rest here). I love that a poem written around 1896 remains true and relevant in 2014. The words of this poem resonate with me, in part because of where my boys are in life right now -- on the precipice of adulthood, needing both to learn and teach, blowing across the world's wide highway as tumbleweeds. 
I look forward to knowing the them they are becoming, but oh how I love holding on tight and joining in on the ride as they go! It's funny, isn't it, how many lives we can live in one lifetime.

Poem XXXII: From far, from eve and morning (second stanza)
Now-- for a breath I tarry  Nor yet disperse apart--  Take my hand quick and tell me,  What have you in your heart.  --A.E. Housman

#EveryDayinMay - Remember Us

It's Memorial Day weekend, and when you read this I'll be out hiking the Ouachita Trail in southeastern Oklahoma.

But right now I'm working on a bit of curriculum writing for some work I'm doing with North Star of Texas Writing Project. One of the poems selected is The Young Dead Soldiers Do Not Speak, by Archibald MacLeish. He was an artillery officer in WWI, and wrote this poem for a memorial service after WWII. I hadn't read this text before working on this particular curriculum, so I spent some time reading and rereading, and researching the poet and poem. It's a strong piece, and I'm glad we chose to share it in the work we're doing with these teachers and students.

It's also a beautiful poem to share for Memorial Day. The first few lines are below, and you can read the complete poem here.

Enjoy this long weekend, friends -- perhaps taking some time to reflect on how your life can honor the sacrifices of those who have gave so much.

#EveryDayinMay - A Hot Mess

Click the image to visit this week's Poetry Friday host, Violet Nesdoly

I think I will stop planning my blog posts. Every time I do, life sneaks up and taps me on the shoulder, raises one eyebrow and shakes her head.

"Oh no," she says, "Not that. This. This is what matters today."

And she pushes today's special at me, shoves it in my unready hands, turning to wander away without asking if I wanted what she had to offer, before watching how I react.

* * *

Even then, when I realized the moment had come, when I knew what I wanted to write about today was gone -POOF- like a wisp of smoke, the tendrils thinning and fading without apology, I knew at the same time that she deserved more than some old poem I found on the internet and posted in memoriam. Even though I had some great ones. Even though those poets said what I felt with words so much better than mine could ever be.

She deserved more than someone else's words.

She deserved mine. 

* * *

The truth is

she was a hot mess

that filled up our days

with brown fur tumbleweeds

and late night

dashes through the streets

calling, "Daisy! Daisy!"

as she ran,

triumphant

in her escape.

Life with her was

a tail-thumping,

full-faced drool of a lick.

Soda cans went flying,

trash bags spontaneously

gutted, sandwiches missing

from plates left alone

one second too long.

A devoted foot-warmer,

couch potato partner,

vegetable scrap

dispenser.

A devoted friend.

There could not be

one second too long

spent beside her brown-eyed gaze;

the one she always gave me 

before gently huffing and

resting her head on my lap,

as if to say, "Oh human,

I love you

but you are a hot mess."

© 2014 Kelly Mogk

#EveryDayinMay - Poetry with Flora & Ulysses

Today's post was planned and ready to go when all of a sudden it was altered by a very unanticipated occurence.

We reached our first poem in Flora & Ulysses during reading club, and decided we should write some poetry, too. It's a poem that begs to be used as a mentor text, and since our very short time together was ending, I hurriedly gathered up some markers and chart paper and modeled how to use the poem to write my own. We noticed how the poem was organized, and then I thought aloud about how to brainstorm my own list of ideas modeled after Ulysses' first poem.

After I wrote my poem on the chart paper, I invited my little poets to continue brainstorming their own words and begin their poem. We just happened to have paper and pencils handy -- before reading we had brainstormed what a superhero's sidekick would look like and they drew sketches of what their sidekick would look like. They kept the paper and pencil out while I read, to continue their sketches, write down words they liked as I read, and draw pictures to go with the story.

It is always a good idea to be ready to write while you're reading!

Their poems were lovely, as children's poems often are, and we shared what we wrote before leaving for the day.

Response to Flora & Ulysses on Vimeo.
I brought the book home tonight and finished it. Flora & Ulysses would easily be a classroom read aloud I would add to my class library, and I'm happy to have three copies on each of my campuses in our school libraries. I know it will be a book not often on the shelves, but happily in the hands and hearts of our young readers.

#EveryDayinMay Poetry Friday with Tellagami

Make sure to go see what Crystal is up to today!

This week's Poetry Friday Link Up is hosted by Elizabeth Steinglass. For more wonderful poetry, hop on over there and check out all the links!

My supervisor recently gave me copies of The Poetry Friday Anthology by Sylvia Vardell and Janet Wong for both my campuses. There are weekly poems inside for grades K-5, along with tips on reading each poem with your class. I've only scanned it briefly so far, but I'm eager to read through several more poems! I thought it might be fun to make videos for teachers to use next year in class with some of the poems -- you guys, if I could stand on my head and recite poetry, and if it would get more poetry into classrooms -- I would do it!

So here is my first attempt! I used a fun app called Tellagami. It's free, and allows you to create a character and either record your voice or use text to speech to animate a 30 second video. You can choose from the backgrounds provided or upload your own image.

This is me reciting Night Comes by Deborah Chandra, which is in the 5th grade section for week 32 and chosen as a poem for noticing metaphor and simile. What do you think?

#EveryDayinMay - Poetry Friday

You can find more wondrous words over
at Crystal's blog today!

I'm sinking deep into the moment tonight. All this talk of hiking and hidden hot springs and finding adventure in my ordinary life brought me to the doorstep of the poet William Stafford. So many of his poems speak to me, fold themselves around me and say, "Stop. Listen. Rest a while," and I do, thankful for a place to lean my busy mind, if only for a moment.

***

Waking at 3 a.m.
by William Stafford

Even in the cave of the night when you
wake and are free and lonely,
neglected by others, discarded, loved only
by what doesn't matter--even in that
big room no one can see,
you push with your eyes till forever
comes in its twisted figure eight
and lies down in your head.

You think water in the river;
you think slower than the tide in
the grain of the wood; you become
a secret storehouse that saves the country,
so open and foolish and empty.

You look over all that the darkness
ripples across. More than has ever
been found comforts you. You open your
eyes in a vault that unlocks as fast
and as far as your thought can run.
A great snug wall goes around everything,
has always been there, will always
remain. It is a good world to be
lost in. It comforts you. It is
all right. And you sleep. 

***

I am happily lost in lines like "you think slower than the tide in / the grain of the wood;" and "It is a good world to be / lost in." I've always loved poetry, and am just a smidge reverent when I come across a poet like Stafford, whose words make me want to call him up and say, "Yes! This! Exactly!"

For more excellent poetry around the webosphere today, check out the link-up at Jama's Alphabet Soup.

#EveryDayinMay - Let It Go. No, Seriously.

Hop over to check out how Crystal celebrated Cinco de Mayo today!

I have a little cupboard in my heart. It holds more things than one might expect for such a small heart-sized cupboard. Bits and pieces of my childhood, a long list of angst filled days from my teenage years, the last remnants of bruises from my first marriage (I told you that was a story for another day), regrets from my children's younger years that still sting fresh as a jellyfish wound, and a plethora of memories I don't want to remember but can't seem to shake loose.

Tonight in class we read our Journey poems. You know, the one inspired by Cavafy's Ithaka. The one that reminds me of Gaiman's Instructions. And more recently, the one so very much like Mary Oliver's The Journey. When I started writing mine, it was a bit melancholy. The words poured out, focused on the past, as if miniature demons were dancing my pen across the paper, refusing to let me look forward. They were angry, grumbling words.

Not the words I wanted to use to honor my journey. Sure, it's been a rough one. But whose hasn't? Midway through writing, I heard the words of someone who recently said to me, "You have so much stress in your life."

She'd been reading my blog. Perhaps she'll read this. If so -- thank you, your words reminded me of my small heart-sized cupboard, the one that stores up all the aches and pains I've accumulated through the years. And because of that, I changed my poem.

Perhaps it will change my journey, as well.

So I decided to focus on the changes I've made, the positivity I embrace every day, the focus I place in attempting to stay in the moment, to live right where I am -- no turbulent past, no worrisome future. I threw open that cupboard door and let all the regrets and drama tumble out and wash away.

I'm pleased with how the poem turned out. My classmates seemed to enjoy it; they said they could see the path I wrote about, feel the grass beneath their feet. They likened it to Whitman and Frost, which is a compliment I'll take any day.

I'm reminded that my one little word for this year is light. And lately -- between my first semester in school, the upcoming trip in July, the decision to step back from areas in my life that don't quite fit, and a few other odds and ends -- I do feel lighter.

Released. (Which, funny enough, was my word for 2013.)

So here's to the journey, wherever it may take you. Here's to letting go of the things hiding in the cupboard, those shoddy little things you don't want anyone to see. Let it all out -- throw it all into the air and say goodbye.

And then go out and live your life, unapologetically. Perhaps, like Whitman, you can then sound your "barbaric yawp over the roofs of the world."

#EveryDayinMay - Roadtripping Dreams

It started with a poem. Ithaca by Constantine P. Cavafy. This poem is the inspiration for my last assignment of the semester. Write a Journey poem - a poem that tells the story of your life; where do you want to go, what do you want to do, and how will you do it?

While brainstorming for this poem, I got a little carried away with ideas for a giant roadtrip across these here United States of America. This turned into the decision that I wouldn't be able to see everything I wanted to see if I made the suggested brief entry into every state. So I started at Bing maps to see how I could turn it into two trips, one to the west and one to the east. I showed The Husband what I was up to, and his face lit up Christmas tree style. I'm not kidding when I say this man would sell everything we have and head off into the great unknown, you guys.

Then I found Roadtrippers.com, which allowed me to enter in each National Forest or landmark I want to visit, and save the trip. Of course, this turned into the realization that what I really need is several trips, not simply two big ones. Now I'm on the hunt to create four trips. I'm sure this will devolve into several more trips. Because, why not?

I made it to City of Rocks, Idaho before becoming hopelessly overwhelmed.

Here is the original image I found that shows the quickest route across the United States:

Now, if you are the type of person that just wants the ability to cross "See The Lower 48" off your bucket list, this might be the trip for you. But if you're a wayward wanderer, an adventurer, a consumer of grand experiences, you might be looking for something else. Something molded around vast starry nights, snow capped mountain peaks, and waking beneath an endless forest canopy.

I know I am.

I mean, how do I zip through Colorado without seeing the Canyons of the Ancients, or ignore Mt. St. Helens in Washington? There is far, far too much to see in one giant circle around the states. Add to this the fact that The Husband and I want time to hop out of the car and do a little hiking at several points along the way, and well -- you see the problem. It's easy to get lost just in the planning.

For now, I'm enjoying the idea. It's a glimmer of good things to come, adventures on the horizon. It's a promise waiting in the not-too-distant future.

And a fantastic distraction from that Journey poem, which still politely waits to be written in my journal. Perhaps I should get back to that now.

Where would your road trip dreams take you? Share in the comments - I'd love to create a map of destinations provided by readers!

#EveryDayinMay - Poetry Friday

Pop on over to Write.Sketch.Repeat. for more poetry!

In class this week, we looked at several of Rilke's poems. Afterward, we were told to choose one title and consider how we would write our own poem of the same title.  I have long been an admirer of Rilke's poetry, and the selections our professor had chosen made it difficult for me to settle on the title I wanted to focus on. Eventually I went with Going Blind.

The first stanza begins:

She sat just like the others at the table.
But on second glance, she seemed to hold her cup
a little differently as she picked it up.
She smiled once. It was almost painful.

You can read the rest here.

When thinking about the title, I immediately imagined a blindness much different than the loss of sight. It was interesting to view a title and then consider how I could make it my own. This is something I haven't done with my own young writers, but hope to soon in the future. They never fail to amaze me with their creativity. Luckily we're reading Flora & Ulysses right now, which gives me a good opening to play with some poetry!

Here's my first unedited draft from class. I really like the idea behind the words, but I haven't found the right flow yet. Hoping it will evolve as I play with it more in the future.

Going Blind
Just a moment,
she'd say.
I need to fetch the mail.

An easy thing,
to fetch the mail--
down the walk
and back again.

Just a moment,
she'd say,
I need to fetch the mail.

Shuffle out,
shuffle in,
let the conversation
begin again, coffee cooling
in untouched cups.

I listen to her stories,
once,
twice--
on a yawning spiral afternoon
perhaps a third.

Just a moment,
she'd say,
I need to fetch the mail.

Shuffle out,
shuffle in,
let the conversation
begin again, forgotten coffee
cold on the table.

She laughs,
looks away.
Covers up mistakes
we all pretend
to not see.

Then, again--
just a moment,
she'll say.
I need to fetch the mail.

Be sure to stop by Crystal's blog today and
read all about her adventures in New Orleans!

#SOL14 - Goodnight, Dear Slicers, Goodnight

Tonight I sent in my poetry for the third assignment in the class I'm taking. I set out to write poems from the perspectives of different women in today's society. What I ended up with was more of a social commentary type of poem; not anything I thought I would ever write.

There are two poems on motherhood, though only one made the final cut. The rest of the poems cover feminism, aging, false beauty, sex trafficking, and goddesses -- ancient and modern. Interesting to me, was the fact that I don't necessarily agree with the perspective of each poem. Some are more about being misunderstood than anything else. But I'm glad I wrote them, and I believe I'll keep writing around this subject. There is so much to cover on the topic of the 21st Century Woman; I have material for days.

I was sad not to be able to send the second poem on motherhood. It was one of the softer pieces I wrote, but just didn't feel finished. In fact, I think it's only about halfway done. I very much love the current last lines, though. And I think they are fitting for the last night of this March Slice of Life Challenge:

She sits beside the quiet

like a stranger.

And... goodnight, dear readers, goodnight.

#SOL14 - Poetry Problems

Tonight I'm working on poetry. This is the third assignment of four, each a little different but all focused on creativity. I decided a couple weeks ago that I wanted to create a collection of poems centered around what it means to be a woman in the 21st century. I played with ideas in my head, felt certain it would all come together rather easily.

Tonight I'm wrestling with poetry. The words are stubborn, my thoughts are jumbled, the pen trips over itself. I thought I knew what I wanted to say, but the more I say the more perspectives I think of, and the less centered I find myself. I'm toying with words on paper, circling the questionable, crossing out the rubbish, rewriting the remains.

Tonight I'm writing poetry. It's hard, it's glorious, it's completely imperfect. It's exactly what I want to be doing. Working, wrestling, writing, reflecting on what's real. I'm finding the truth, narrowing down the words, sculpting the obscure into something known and beautiful.

Tonight, I'm writing.

#SOL14 - Ezra, Hiragana, and Me: Compressing Poetry

Last night was another luscious night of poetry. Here's one example that might be handy in class (especially with National Poetry Month just around the bend).

We looked at Ezra Pound's In a Station of the Metro:

There was some discussion about how this poem is an equation. Something = something else. I really like thinking about it that way; it helps me simplify the poem to discuss it with young writers. It would be easy enough to show them photographs of familiar items (grocery bag, slide, jump rope) and brainstorm what else those things could be, look like, sound like... if we stretch our imagination. Better yet, take a group on a walking field trip to photograph interesting items they want to choose as their own subject for a similar poem.

In class, our professor handed out copies of the Hiragana. He told us to look at the various characters, stretch our imagination, and see what happened.

Portrait of Ezra Pound courtesy of my professor, Dr. Gary Swaim

Here are a few I scribbled down in the time we were given:

Two rails, side by side, never parting;
the closeness of your foot near mine as we sleep.

Her round, perfect belly;
the moon, the ocean, all the space between.

Leg bent delicately, foot pressed to thigh;
this tree sways but stands firm.

I'm not where I need to be in the art of compression, but this is an excellent way to play around with words and gain skill painting grand pictures with few words -- a lesson from which all writers can benefit. I'm eager to share this with my own young writers soon.

#SOL14 - Long Day

Day 19 of the Slice of Life Challenge

A long day.

A short poem.

Testing.

Research.

Pilates and dinner prep.

Dos at the mall.

Soup, divine.

Puppy play.

Hot bath.

A book.

Bedtime.

#SOL14 - Thirteen Memories

Still tinkering with the idea of Stevens' Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird. My mom's birthday was yesterday, so she's been on my mind all week. Here then, are thirteen ways of looking at (growing up with) my mom.

I
Because of her,
We discovered the wonder
Found in new words and worlds,
Between rows of books.

II
Hair, rich chestnut brown.
Pony and pigtails,
Long or short,
Always thin;
fine as spiderwebs.
"Just wait," she warned,
"When you're older it all goes away."
I didn't listen, but I should have.

III
Nighttime meant
The smell of Noxzema,
Pink and white plastic pins
Placed carefully into hair rollers, and
An open Bible, read
By soft lamp light.

IV
The best part about
Being sick
Was candy-sweet hot tea
And toast
Thick with butter.

V
On the night everything changed,
When pulsing lights lit up the sky
In red and blue and white,
And men's voices barked
Commands into the darkness,
She wrapped herself around me
Like a cocoon, eyes searching
My face, crying, "My baby,
My precious baby,
What's happened to her?"

VI
Joan Jett sings
About loving rock and roll,
While Mom and I dance
Like wild things
Across the living room floor.

VII
After the accident,
When the leg brace was removed,
A shiny purple question mark
Remained on the top of her knee
As if asking, "Why us?"

VIII
Her hands and knees
Press firmly to the floor.
I stand in front of her,
Watching.
She arches her back up,
then down.
Then up again.
I laugh.
"Don't laugh," she huffs,
Back swaying down once more.
"I'm doing my calisthenics."

IX
Words are a game
In her mouth,
Rolling around like a ball
On a roulette wheel.

X
She sang,
And sings still.
Prayers and praise
Sent up to heaven
Note by note.

XI
I wake, finding her poised
At the edge of my bed,
Crying.
Her body curls over itself;
A wilting plant.
"Oh honey," she whispers,
"What am I going to do?"

XII
Her superpower
Is knowing just the right card,
Remembering every birthday and
Always, always writing in that
Perfectly formed print
The words you need to hear.

XIII
On Friday nights
In those desert days,
Mom and her best girl friends
Hit the casinos
But she never left without
Me first placing
A lucky quarter into her waiting hand.

#SOL14 - Thirteen Ways

In class this week, we finally dug into our first text on poetry, Rose, Where Did You Get That Red? by Kenneth Koch. As someone that loves to explore poetry with young writers, I can't believe I've never seen this book before. I'm also a little amused that much of how I share and write poetry with my writers is pretty similar to the methods in this book, written in 1973. If you are looking for a resource to help guide your instruction on poetry with students -- don't miss this one.

With National Poetry Month just around the corner (my poster arrived last week!), this feels like perfect timing. I'm looking forward to some fun poetry play in my writing club!

We started off just enjoying several of the student responses to the poems in Koch's book and ended by listening to our professor read Wallace Stevens' Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird. After discussing the poem, he asked us to each remove an item from our bags or wallets.

I chose a pencil, because I am damn original.

Because I am also completely clueless, I had no idea what he was going to ask us to do. Perhaps if I were a decent student, I would have chosen a more exciting item.

Alas.

Next, as will probably not surprise you, dear reader, but was a total shock to me, we wrote about the item we chose -- thirteen ways of looking at it, of course. We had about ten minutes or so to jot down our first thoughts. Mine are below. This is the first time I've looked at them again since Monday, and I'm remembering now how difficult it was for me to write a few lines and try to think of a different way to look at a pencil. I love how this activity stretches the brain. Nothing earth shatteringly new in the lines shared below, but I still think this is a great idea for looking at things in different perspectives. My teacherly brain immediately leapt to thoughts on how this could be used in other content areas. My writer's mind considered it as character study, setting research, and even a way to write memoir.

***

The pencil came from many and has much to give.

***

Filled with secrets, inventions,

lyrics and theories.

It waits for you to unlock

it's mysteries.

***

Classroom torture device.

A weapon in a school bully's

capable hands.

***

Bain of the left-handed

note taker.

I think I hear it snicker

with each smudge.

***

Pencils point the way to the truth,

leaving slick grey clues

in their wake.

***

But the pencil can't be

trusted to etch its grey truths

in any sort of permanence.

***

The more time you

spend together, the closer

you are to goodbye.

#Slice2013 - Day 9 of 31

I sat forever trying to decide what to slice this evening... by 11:15 tonight these words started swirling around my head and I figured a newly forming poem is better than nothing for a Slice-in-time!

I wrote first, with crayon.
Loop the loops and bright zig-zaggedy bolts
that sped across the page, hungry
to find their place.

Next, pencil.
Broken tips and fat pink eraser marks,
and a left hand smudged silky grey
after hours practicing perfectly polished letters.

Then, pen swept in.
Fanciful blue, serious black, critical red
colored days filled with poetry and places,
staining my skin with its inky rainbow.

And typewriter!
Smooth keys transferring ink to page,
click-clack-dinging in response to my
story-loving heart.

Computer came next.
Blue screen, buttery yellow letters;
blinking, flashing cursor waited patiently
for words to fill the empty space.

But then, journal.
Lined, blank pages waiting to be filled
with scribbled words and captured doodles
in crayon, pencil, pen, and snippets of printed page.

It's Monday, What Are You Reading? (And a challenge!)

It's Monday! Huzzah! It's Monday and I'm sitting at home on my big comfy couch, surrounded by books.

You just gotta love a three day weekend, right?

I've been reading oodles of books lately, partially in hopes of finding the just right way to reach my new students in my new school where I feel a little like Alice and a little like Goldilocks, and a lot like Mr. Magoo.

So between the bumps and bruises of adjusting to my new school home, I read.

Recently, I've read quite a few fabulous middle grade novels, with a stack of promising reads to keep me busy for at least another month. Here's a sample of what I've read so far:

Somehow, between having students with really good taste, and some excellent timing, I've managed to read (or reread) a few delightful books by Sharon Creech throughout the month of September. Love That Dog will always remain a favorite for me -- combining poetry with dog love and a boy learning to love words? Yeah -- you got me. I hadn't planned to read it to my classes so early in the year, but they prodded me and it ended up being a perfect beginning for us. Afterwards, a student handed me Granny Torrelli Makes Soup, which I hadn't read before. I love how Creech weaves together past and present in this short but touching tale of friendship. I'll definitely be passing it along to more students!

Love That Dog * Granny Torrelli * The Great Unexpected

And finally, I picked up a copy of the recently published The Great Unexpected. Interestingly, I heard a little bit of Rosie's voice from Granny Torrelli piping through in Naomi's best friend, Lizzie. I'm curious if anyone else heard that, as well! In The Great Unexpected, Creech tosses together folk tales with a little magic realism and a lot of love to create a story that any Creech follower is sure to appreciate. I know exactly which student I'll be handing this book to first thing tomorrow morning!

Almost Home

I also just finished Joan Bauer's Almost Home, which is as heartbreaking as it is endearing. I quickly fell in love with Sugar Mae Cole, the 12-year-old main character, and her tag along puppy, Shush. Exploring themes that perfectly spark #chooseKind conversations, Bauer also employs a variety of text genres. Readers will quickly understand how important words are in Sugar's world, while seeing models of letter writing, poetry, memoirs, and more. Within minutes of book talking this new title to my students, I had kids scrambling to be the first to read it. And now it's being passed from hand to hand. Almost Home is a beautiful story that any child with family struggles can relate to, and learn from.

Starry River of the Sky

Currently, I'm splitting my time between Grace Lin's Starry River of the Sky (I'm just on page 43) and an unwieldy stack of profession development books. My husband also keeps nudging Patrick Rothfuss' Wise Man's Fear at me, and on a good day, I read maybe a page of it at a time. I loved the first book in this trilogy, The Name of the Wind, but making time for this type of epic fantasy is hard for me these days! And even with as much as I am reading these days, my to-read stack just keeps growing... I need a vacation to catch up on my reading! Does this sound familiar?



The thing I love about reading this much is how it seems to effect my students. Each Monday we sit together and set a reading goal -- they hold me to mine, and I hold them to their goals, too. And when the following Monday arrives, if anyone hasn't met their goal they are expected to know why and have a solution. If they don't have a solution, our class community of readers offers suggestions. It's powerful to watch them transform each week from this simple conversation. So for as long as my nightly reading seems to inspire them to keep chugging along, I will keep reading. I don't know how many reader role models they have in their lives, but at least they can't count on me as one.

So What Do They Really Know?

While I have all these books spinning wildly about, I feel like I need to do something to ground myself in what I'm learning through my PD books. From October 14 through November 11, I'll be reading Cris Tovani's So What Do They Really Know? and posting each week to reflect on my reading. I'd like to invite you to join me. Comment if you're interested -- I'll post details tomorrow! (Be thinking weekly posts, twitter chat opportunities, and maybe even a google hangout to chat n' learn!) What say you, readers? Do you have time to spend a minute filling out this form so we can read and share together?

What's Possible in Possibility?

Possibility. That's my one little word for 2012.

It's interesting to me how one word can wrap itself around you and take on a life of its own.

Impossible spells "I'm possible." (We love you, Audrey.)

Dwell in possibility.  (Thank you, Emily.)

LIVE with possibility.

One month ago I felt overwhelmed -- eaten up by -- possibility. The choices and chances in the coming months swirled around me, leaving me feeling lost in the fog -- of possibility.

Now I see it differently. I see the bliss and the blessing in all this possibility. I see adventure and opportunity. I see a life lived out loud. A life worth living.

I decided I needed to track down the root of this word that has become the framework of my year.

Possibility led me to possible, which led me further down the path to the Latin word posse, which means "be able." Following this still further I found that posse and potent both mean "power."

There is also the Latin verb possum (no, not opossum!), meaning "I am able," or "I can."

Follow the etymology around long enough and you'll find your way through the Latin potis (which leads to pote, meaning vessel -- how beautiful is that?) to the Sanskrit word  पति, or páti, which means "lord, master, rule, sovereign."

And what more is possibility, than to dwell in the brilliant truth that each day I get to choose what path to take. To dwell in "I can." To toss out the lists and the schedules and the must-have's and never-do's, and just get on with the business of living.

The words found in possibility are beautifully empowering. I found myself thinking of the words from Invictus by William Ernest Henley; the last stanza in particular:

It matters not how strait the gate,

How charged with punishments the scroll.

I am the master of my fate:

I am the captain of my soul. 

With all these delicious words wandering through my mind, I was reminded of Bob Raczka'a book Lemonade and Other Poems Squeezed From a Single Word. I looked up Andrew Russ, whose work Raczka was inspired by, and found even more words to ponder.

So I decided to give it a try with possibility. After much shifting around of letters and words, I realized it's much more difficult than I thought! But here it is, and here I am, dwelling in possibility:

So Quickly

They grow up.

Your mom warns you. "Don't blink, it all goes so quickly," she says. "One day you're changing diapers, the next you're sending them off to college." And she shakes her head. She chuckles.

You think she is crazy.

It all goes so quickly? What a joke! What is quick about diapers and dishes and the ever present disaster in this house? Quickly. She's off her rocker.

You're convinced you'll have these moments forever. Relaxing together after Kindergarten, reading stories at bedtime, cheering at soccer games, hunched over homework.

These days are long. It's only the night that goes quickly. That last stolen glance into the bedroom; peaceful sleeping faces nestled against Star Wars bed covers. You yawn, mentally ticking off your list of to-do's before you too, can sleep.

But still, her words echo in your mind.

You close your eyes.

Middle school dances, pizza parties, last minute research papers; an uncomfortable itch starts to settle in your mind.

Was she right?

You blink.

There are high school schedules to figure out, which may as well be a corn maze attempted with a blindfold. You sit side by side deciphering the wide world of electives, thankful that they still want your help for something besides movie money.  Suddenly: Driver's Ed, dating, football games, first jobs, and then; an order form for a cap and gown?

It all goes so quickly, you think.

Why didn't anyone warn you? You need more time to prepare!

You chuckle. You shake your head.

And want, fiercely, to call your mom.

The Problem

The problem with writing is this:
there are too many words, too many
ideas; popping up like springtime dandelions,
ripe to be carried away by the wind.

This was nudging itself around my head while I tried to sleep last night. It's still barely a seedling, but I'll play with it... if I don't lose it, or forget the words, or worse, accidentally delete it...

I've been thinking a lot about organization of writing and what to do with all the ideas, all the words, all the fragments that I've collected.

Do I start a new journal for every new story? I new file folder? Buy a hard drive just for my writing?

I need to do something. Right now I have journals, files, documents, napkins (seriously), you name it -- strewn through my life like a breadcrumb trail.

And honey, we're not gonna make it home on bread alone.

So I pose this question, friends: how do you organize your writing? I'm ready to learn.