imgur.com
May there be a home for you,
At the end of every journey.
May there be a home for you,
No matter how far you’ve gone.
May there be a home for you,
At the pause of every breath.
May there be a home for you,
In the remotest place.
May there be a light left on for you,
To help you walk through dark.
May there be a warm hearth greeting you,
And love to bloom all sparks.
For all the things that merit gratitude,
Let there be many thanks.
For all the wonders that fill hearts
And gladden souls,
Let there be thanks.
For the bounty of all blessings:
For the smiles,
The newborn children,
The rediscovery of
Newfound hopes
And boundless potential
For growth,
Let there be thanks.
*
For it is not joy that
Makes us grateful,
But the thanks
that bring us
Joy.
She came to session in a huff.
“I am SO bad at history,” she stated bitterly. “I hate history.”
After letting in a bit of sympathy and a bit of gentle urging, she pulled out a stapled test striped broad with red–remarks, circled words and crossed out answers–the teacher’s mutilation. A large C dominated the top of the page. She threw the paper on the table, her face a salad of emotions: regret, embarrassment, disgust, disappointment, sadness, frustration, despair, shame.
“I’m not taking this home,” she said. “Can you keep it in my file here instead?”
“How about we look at the test together,” I offered, skirting the question.
She frowned (kids always pick on adult evasive maneuvers …) but nodded grudgingly. We went over the questions and her answers. She was actually almost correct on most, just not quite as the teacher wanted. The girl misinterpreted directions on a couple but wrote accurate facts; misplaced a number on a date; confused an ambiguous passive tense and so got the answer wrong (trick question, that one was); wrote the wrong sequence of correctly memorized events …
The teacher gave no quarter for mistakes of any kind, no leeway. The red marks slashed through the test in an assured hand of criticism. To add insult to injury, the bottom of the second page read “Try harder next time” … harshly assuming that the effort was what lacked, rather than skill or speed of processing.
In effect, the mistakes were very good proof of trying. They were signposts of the effort put in by a child who finds memorizing difficult and worked hard to understand the unfurling of what happened to whom where and when and why. She knew the material, even if the test plumbed all her weak spots and completely ignored the many things she studied.
Comforted some by the validation of her work, she calmed, vindicated that she wasn’t “bad at history” and bolstered by understanding that while the teacher had the right to take off points for errors, there were many places where knowledge came through, if imperfectly.
For the rest of the session we worked on attending to test questions: identifying exactly what was asked, highlighting important words in questions and directions, re-wording it if necessary, reading all the answers before settling on the best one, writing down key-words. Strategies for testing.
In the end she left with the offending graded test in her backpack, ready to take it home and armed with the understanding of what she did right, not only what came out wrong. Still disappointed, she was at least no longer ashamed.
“I think Ms. J sure does loves red,” she noted, a bit of snark in her voice but humor finally restored. “Maybe someone should get her a green marker …”
winter is closing in soon by Gunnar Gestur on Flickr
Find a moment of magic
where the air
meets the sky;
where the light
holds back darkness
and the sun
twirls a ribbon
to the frost
swimming by.
Find a moment of magic;
breathe a lungful
of peace.
Brace your heart
with warm knowing:
There will be light on
all winter
standing sentry
till spring.
A friend sent me this photo, taken 1910 … and I thought, it was the best BEST example ever, of bending the rules … (or at least those rules that make no sense beyond to those who made them … )
I was reminded of it today, after speaking with a young boy who complained that he got into trouble–yet again–for breaking “another of the teacher’s stupid rules.”
The boy’s mother had her mouth already open to reprimand him for using a word one ‘should not say’ in the context of one’s educators … but I gave her one of my ‘please don’t’ looks … and she took a deep breath and nodded.
“What kind of rules?” I asked.
“Stupid ones,” he grumbled. Then seeing that I was actually waiting to hear an example, he sighed. “Like not being allowed to hold our pencils while we’re reading. She keeps taking points off when I break the rule.”
“Did she tell you why she doesn’t want you to do that?”
“I don’t know,” he shrugged, “because she said so?”
I chuckled. “Fair enough … sometimes grownups say that you should not do things just because they say so … but I was wondering if she ever actually told you why. Sounds to me she maybe has a reason–maybe kids play with their pencils? Drop them a lot and it is distracting? Doodle in the books?”
The boy peered at me with a look that let me know that I have just lost about 200 points of coolness in his view along with several dozen in the IQ department. “Sometimes we’re supposed to write in our books,” he stated, “… anyway, if she said it was for that it would make sense, sort of” he added. “I don’t drop mine. I just hold it. She doesn’t want us to hold the pencils just because.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Just because?”
“Yeah,” he stressed. “She said that we don’t need a pencil in our hands for our brain to read…” the boy pouted. “How does she know what my brain needs for reading? What if the pencil reminds my brain what the letters are?”
Point made.
I actually could see how it could do that.
I told the little guy that if it helps him to hold the pencil when he’s reading, to go ahead and do so.
He looked at me, suspicious. “It’ll get me in trouble.”
“Not if you tell her that I told you it’s okay for you to keep holding it if it helps your brain.” I smiled, more than a tad conspiring.
His eyes grew large, and the grin that followed had enough wattage to light up Manhattan’s night sky.
path-in-autumn-reghin-romania Found on listofpictures.blogspot.com
There is gold
in the air
ruby wealth
underfoot.
There are showers
of ocher,
breathing fairies
and wonder,
sprinkling mist
on cool weather,
building paths of
true splendor.
There is magic
to tread through,
parting leaves
end of season,
mixed with dazzling hues
of the richness of nature
spilling forth
onto you.
She came up the stairs dragging a very sorry looking mop.
To my raised eyebrow, she smiled, “it’s a secret,” and said no more. She placed the mop in a corner (head double tied in a plastic bag per my insistence), and sat down to work. Once in a while she lifted her face to look at the mop’s handle with a little “I know something that you don’t but this is working really well so far” grin.
I was of course dying of curiosity but had to admire her resoluteness to not spill the beans. This was no easy feat for a girl who would usually share just about any tiny detail she could think of.
Not this time.
This cat, I could see, was not being let out of the bag. How apt, when we have been working on symbolic language, and how she adored the image of that specific idiom. Thought it was the funniest thing after being “all ears.”
When the mother came to pick her up at end of session, a storm paced near.
“What’s this?” The parent curled a lip.
“From outside,” the child replied regally and more than a little challenging.
The mother shook her head at the mop. (My thoughts exactly … from OUTSIDE? Who knew what peed on this, or worse, and why someone decided to toss out the scraggly mess! She brought this in here from OUTSIDE?!)
The child remain stoic. “I told you I’d figure it out,” she said cryptically.
“But …”
“And you said that if I found a way then I could AND that this can be a secret until Halloween! So you can’t say anything or you’ll tell!” the girl jumped in rapidly before the mother said something that would reveal what was to be kept hidden (and … I think, to prevent any conversation from putting her at a disadvantage …).
The mother looked at me helplessly but all that I could do was shrug slightly and observe. This was better than TV, definitely. I did not have a clue what was going on, but the child’s delight was fun to see. I did have to hand it to the gal: she clearly made a point and seemed to be driving it home (hopefully not literally … I could not see any cab driver happy to see this in the taxi … and was already thinking how there’d be some disinfecting on my end once this thing left my floor, plastic bag or not …).
A long moment ticked. Another.
“Okay!” the mother sighed. The girl’s grin was humongous.
“Okay?!” I could not help it. The girl picked this up from the garbage and it was okay?? This was not a woman who collected toss-out stuff from pavements, and I could not see her letting this into her house. I could barely believe I let it into mine …
“Oh, she means she’ll get me one!” the girl explained. Victorious. “She didn’t want to but I told her that I will find one myself … though,” she turned to her mother, all nectar and loving sweetness, “it WILL be so much nicer to have a new clean one to use …”
The girl grinned at my bewilderment and left hopping down the stairs. Her mother–I am not sure quite as relieved–carried the offensive mop between two careful fingers (“So it does not smear who knows on each of your steps,” the parent shuddered, keeping the bagged mop head well above the ground.)
Neither mother nor child offered explanation for the girl’s newly found interest in housekeeping. It remained a mystery to me.
Until today.
(Picture of an unrelated child in a similar costume …)
“Let change paint life anew
And add more colors to your hue, your you.”
Na’ama Yehuda
maple pattern by Sky-Genta on Flickr
Photo from: secretdreamlife.tumblr.com
Don’t you be shy, now.
Make a splash.
Laugh out loud, do not abash.
Hug a friend, tickle puppies,
Lick a lolly, share small folly.
Cook surprises, throw a party,
Make some stew, and make it hearty.
Come on now,
Seize the moment!
Put your boots on,
Make a splash.
Do not hold back.
Grin toothy joy
Into the puddle,
And let the
lightning
Do the flash.
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