Can you soar, but stand still?

I watch the majestic bird circle just below my perch on the trail,

His wing span is massive, his flight maneuvers delicate.

For just a moment, I am eye to eye with him,

Wishing I can fly away and see his world.

He seems to come closer each time he circles by me,

As if he knows my wish and is considering it.

Maybe he has his own wish.

As I stand there taking in his beauty I feel a gust a of wind blow past me,

And in that second I am soaring along side him,

As I am standing still.

It finally happened. We bought one. My husband, Jim, had been doing research for months. He loves to research before investing in a purchase. I will watch him hunched over his computer with multiple tabs open comparing different brands, types, and durability on any product we are concerning to buy. Jim was looking for which one had the best handling and best wheels to go over different terrains. He made up his mind he wanted one with a single wheel, because he could better work his core while doing yard work. I disagreed. I have always had a love/hate relationship with wheelbarrows. But, he does most of the yard work, so he could have this one.

I have fond memories of being a young child of about five, being given rides in a two wheeled wheelbarrow. My step-grandfather would push my cousin Amy and I around his 14 acre mini farm. I remember thinking how amazing the ride was as he moved us past his flower garden, to the strawberries, and along the cornstalks that were just getting to be about my height. I thought that wheelbarrow was the Ferrari of wheelbarrows. It’s two wheels made it sturdy, and it felt huge to me to hold myself and my cousin, plus the items Poppy needed to tend to his gardens. It made me feel special that Poppy would take us around his property in style. I thought he was so strong to push us along the way he did. It wasn’t until I was in high school that I noticed he was only about five feet four inches tall, but when he pushed us in that souped up wheelbarrow he was a giant.

My father had the typical wheelbarrow with one wheel in the front and two handles that stuck out the back. It was shaped more like a triangle. Not like Poppy’s slick rectangular wheelbarrow. When I was very young I would often ask my dad for rides in it. My dad always declined reminding me it was not steady, it could possibly tip and I could fall out. This wheelbarrow was also dirty and rusty. I don’t know what my father did to it through the years. It could of learned a few things from Poppy’s pristine wheelbarrow.

As the years went on, I was expected to help my father in the yard. I am an only child, so he had slim pickings when it came to help. When I was 13 years old we lived in the Ohio Valley. It was a rural community, and we owned about four acres of land. That’s when my disdain for the one wheeled wheelbarrow peaked. I was expected to help transport numerous items around the four acres for my father. The old wheelbarrow was like a Ford Pinto, you never knew when it was going to fail you. I remember shoveling and filling it with a huge pile of dirt, as I was carefully crossed the yard I ran over a small stone. The wheelbarrow immediately tipped, spilling it’s contents onto the ground. I was only about 20 feet from where I was to make my delivery. I stood there and tears of frustration and hate towards this wheelbarrow streamed down my face. I then kicked that wheelbarrow as hard as I could. At 13, I believed this was the best way to handle the situation. I kicked the tire, and it went flat. I never knew a wheelbarrow’s tire needed air to function. My 13 year old self thought it best to sit next to it and cry until my father would help me out. It worked, and I managed to get off wheelbarrow duty after that.

I did not go to the hardware store to go buy the wheelbarrow this weekend. I figured I did not need to relive anymore bad one wheel wheelbarrow memories. Jim went with our two children and his sister, who was visiting from out of town. Caiden and Willow were so excited about making this purchase, it was as if it was Christmas morning. They danced around the house as they got ready to go. Caiden telling me the lists of things he was going to help his dad with. Willow came running to me holding out her Giants jersey and a pair of leggings, and asked if the outfit was a good one to buy a wheelbarrow in. I told her it was perfect. It was game day, and this was months in the making. So, I guess I could understand.

They we were gone for a few hours. As I did laundry and made beds I wondered what was taking them so long. I remembered Jim is very frugal, and I could see him going to few hardware stores to save a few dollars. When I heard the garage door open. I walked outside to our driveway, and there it was. A two wheeled wheelbarrow. It wasn’t as classy as Poppy’s, but its green paint sparkles in the sunlight. My children were jumping all around it in delight. I looked at Jim, and he said, “I heard you. I do think this one is going be better.” I then looked at my children laughing and running around it. Happy memories are already being made.

Pencils are hot commodity in my fifth grade class. My students are often on the hunt for a pencil right before we are to start any subject that requires writing something down, which is pretty much every subject I teach. This shouldn’t be the case, I have caddies on each table with a place for pencils. As well as, a cup in the front of the room where any extra pencils can reside. When I first started teaching fifth grade this was a complete mystery to me. How can a 10 year old lose a pencil five times a day, and where did they all go? I learned very quickly they all went to the floor of the classroom. Gravity is a powerful thing. As soon as all my students left for the day, and there were not 24 growing bodies filling the space, I noticed dozens of pencils sprawled across the floor. Since I have been teaching fifth grade my afternoon ritual is to go around the room and to pick up all the forgotten pencils.

This past Thursday, I was making my pencil collecting rounds, when I noticed an opened notebook on the back table. I became a bit annoyed by my students forgetfulness, because I had given multiple reminders to put all materials away after Writer’s Workshop prior to packing up. I walked over to the notebook and my annoyance graduated to irritation. The notebook looked like it had been through a lot. The cover was tattered, some pages were crumbled, and others were folded over. My first thought was that this student didn’t even care about his notebook, otherwise it wouldn’t be in this condition. I looked at the front cover and saw it was my student C’s Reader’s Notebook. He is a good student and a hard worker, though he is often onto the next thing before completing the task at hand. He is the type of person that will ask a question, then ask another one before you even had a moment to contemplate the first question. Therefore, I wasn’t too surprised he did not put his notebook away before he left.

I then started looking through it to see how his note taking went during reading. We had begun a unit of study on the American Revolution, and C was researching the Boston Massacre. I went through the pages of his notebook and I saw he had notes on his topic. As my eyes scanned the page I saw he wrote answers to his questions to further his research, particularly about the days leading up to the Boston Massacre. I quickly realized that this notebook was not neglected, but very much cared for. It was broken in like a favorite pair of shoes. It was not only a place for C to take notes, but a place for him to capture his thinking. I remembered he did have it out during writing to help with his nonfiction piece on the Boston Massacre.

At the beginning of the year, our literacy coach, Jess Carey, asked what I would like to work on this year. I said how to better use the Reader’s Notebooks. I wanted them to become more than a place the teacher makes the students write things down in, but a tool they could make their own. Jess said, “Let’s do it.” She gave me ideas and helped me guide my students on how to own their notebooks. For example, how to model a notebook page during read aloud, and she introduced the ‘Golden Jot’ to my class to help keep them accountable. The ‘Golden Jot’ is a quick write we do on Fridays on what the student has been working in reading. It also allowed me another way to assess the students. I realized that C’s notebook is a testament to the hard work we all have done. Teachers and students alike.

On Friday morning, C comes running over to me with panic in his eyes. “I can’t find my Reader’s Notebook. It is not in my book box.”

“I found it on the back table yesterday. I didn’t put away because it was opened to page, and it looks like you were working on something.” I replied.

Before my last sentence leaves my mouth, C dashes to the back table to recover his notebook. I watch him pick it and bring it to his chest almost as if he was going to hug it. I walk over to him and ask, “You really seemed worried about not finding your notebook.”

C keeps his eyes down and seems to be admiring his notebook and says, “It’s my notebook. It has everything.” He then gets right to work writing in his notebook. I was left standing there realizing how right he truly is.

I enjoy my Sunday mornings. It is the only morning of the week I’m not rushing around because I have nowhere I need to be. This Sunday was different. I woke up remembering I had sell Girl Scout cookies with my daughter outside the local hardware store. So, there was not going to be staying in my pajamas until mid morning or an extra cup of coffee. There was some hope, the weather. It was snowing and every once in a while I could hear bits of ice hit against my window. It could be canceled, and then I would get my Sunday morning back.

It was a few sips into my coffee when I received the news the cookie booth would still be going on. My mood turned like the weather outside. Dark and cold. Standing in the cold wet weather with four Kindergarten girls was something I imagined going badly. My daughter feels the need to express every inconvenience she is experiencing over and over again. I had a feeling the others in her Daisy troop would be the same. I also realized the hour of sleep I missed out on due to daylight savings was not going to be remedied with more coffee. I had to to get ready to leave my warm bright house.

A few moments later my daughter, Willow, bounces down the stairs and yells, “Yay, it cooking selling day! I can’t wait!” I didn’t want to ruin enthusiasm, so I did not tell to look out the window at the weather. Or, remind her we lost an hour of our weekend and now we would be sending two hours away from our comfortable home. Did I mention that I was an extreme introvert that never really feels comfortable leaving my house? I felt my mood getting even more gloomy. As she climbed into her chair she continued, “I’m so glad I get to go into the community and do something. I am so glad I’m part of it.” I know my daughter had been studying communities in school. She had three field trips already. One to the fire station, another one to the police station, and the last one to the local grocery store. However, her statement stopped me in my tracks.

Growing up my father’s job always had us on the move. I lived in four different states before I was 15, and I never lived longer than three years in one place. I never know how to answer when people ask where I grew up. I didn’t have a hometown. When I had children, I wanted to give them what I did not have, a hometown. A feeling of belonging to a place. When I heard Willow’s statement I know I have given her this. That’s where her excitement was coming from, a feeling of being part of somewhere. It made my mood brighter and hopeful. This could actually be fun.

Willow and I bundled up and drove on the slushy streets of our town to meet the other girls and their parents in front of the hardware store. It was cold. It was wet. There were a few complaints from the girls, but we enjoyed ourselves. We are all are part of a community that gave us all hand warmers for our pockets. Talked to us about upcoming town events. Joked with the girls and made them feel special. One member of the community did not want to buy our cookies, but made a donation to our Daisy troop. It might of taken over four decades, but I finally found the place I’m from. I am so glad Willow is the one to helped me notice it.

I come from a long line of professional worriers. My mother being the leader of her worrier tribe. I often remember rolling my eyes behind my mother’s back as I stepped outside excited to play or meet up with a friend, as I heard her list of warnings about the world. I always thought it came from her surviving a revolution in her country. When she was growing up in Guantanamo, Cuba, walking outside could be a dangerous thing. I remember vowing to myself I would not be a member of her worrying tribe. I thought I wouldn’t, but it was not until I became a parent did I understand what worrying really was all about.

My son spent time in the NICU after he was born due to breathing issues. He was born full term, so this came as a huge surprise. As a first time mother, I had to leave the hospital without my baby. It was my first big worry. Would they hold him when he cried? Did he know he was loved? Did he miss me? Would he get better? All these worries ran through my head 24/7 until my husband and I brought him home. I remember my mother-in-law being there, waiting to greet her new grandson. As she held him I told her how I did not need to worry anymore because he was home. She lifted her head and looked me in the eyes. I saw compassion and a bit of pity. Then she said, “I’ve been at this mother thing for forty years. The worry doesn’t go away, it just changes.” Those words shook my soul. Was I doomed to be a worrier for life?

My mother-in-law’s words are so true. As my children have grown I have found other things to worry about. Just this week my son had the flu. It was a typical illness-fever, headache, cough-nothing I couldn’t handle. Thanks to my own mother, who stayed home with him so I could go to work. I knew in a few days he would get better and our family routine would go back to normal. Until this past Friday, when he wasn’t getting better, but getting worse. That old familiar friend, worry, came charging back into my life.

My son wasn’t eating, his fever spiked to an all time high this week, and he had no energy. I took him to the doctor, and since it was a virus we just needed to wait it out. My worries began to build. Can he catch up with all his missed school work? can I help him feel more comfortable? and what if he doesn’t eat anything and never gets better? Then our heater started acting up and the repair person couldn’t come out until Monday. So, another worry joined me and I thought if the heater stopped working, how could I keep my sick child warm. Just like a broken record these worries replayed in my mind. I have become a full fledged member of my mother’s worrying club.

As my worries were swimming around in my head I noticed my six year old daughter on her back on the floor with her arms and legs in the air laughing. I asked her what was so funny. She took my hand, walked me to the kitchen window, and pointed out to the backyard to a water sprinkler covered in snow. She thought it was hilarious that an object used in the warm months was frozen to the ground. My thoughts turned to worry again- “It’s already March how did I not notice the sprinkler. I hope it works. Great, now I’m probably going to have to buy a new one in the spring. What a waste of money.” For some reason, probably from worrying about the sprinkler, I then asked my daughter how the sprinkler was feeling right now. She just let go of my hand, and said, “Does it matter? It’s not real.” With that I began to laugh. As I did I felt some of my worries float away. Just then my son walked into our warm kitchen and told me he was hungry.

I’m writing this on the last day of my February break. This week was filled with to-do lists, scheduled doctor and dentist appointments, and one child home with the flu. One of the things on my to-do list was to paint my living room. My living room is one of my favorite rooms in our new home. It is beautifully crafted with crown and frame molding, and chair railing running along all four walls. The center piece of the room is a large intricately designed fireplace mantle. The problem I had with it is it was a powder blue, much like the color of tuxedos popular at the time my house was built in 1976. Despite all the lovely molding the room was blindingly monochromatic. Everything was the color of vanilla ice cream. As the months have gone by I was looking forward to this week off, so I would have the time to paint this room.

As each coat of paint went on the wall I became more and more excited. Yesterday I could barely contain my joy when I took the painter’s tape off around the frame molding revealing exactly what I wanted my room to look like. At that moment I noticed that by covering the walls with paint it was revealing more of who I am. My style and my likes, this is becoming more MY home. I thought it was interesting how covering something up was showing more of who I am.

I also realized it was like this new writing venture that I have started. When I sit down to write I start with a blank screen or clean sheet of paper. As I cover it up with my words I reveal more of myself. I am covering the whiteness of paper and screen with MY thoughts and ideas. It has helped me learn more about myself, for this I am grateful.

I am also grateful I get to go back to my students tomorrow with this realization. I plan on having what my class calls “Writer’s Meeting.” This time of the week is inspired by my amazing colleague Dawn Sherriff. During this time my students have choice on what they write about. Some pick to sketch art cards, others write poems, and some free write and let their words take them somewhere. The last few moments we share our writing and comment on each other’s work. Every time I am in awe of what my students write. Tomorrow I cannot wait to see how they decide to cover their paper and how it reveals more about them.

I watch my nine year old son lean over his journal, pencil in hand, creating another story. He struggles in school. He gets pulled for extra reading support three times a week, and he hates every minute of it. He often asks me to write him a note to get him out of his reading support. Yet, he will write for hours on end, creating, revising, rewriting. I will remind him to do his reading, to put down his pencil and pick up a book. He looks me square in the eye and says, “Mommy, I’m a writer not a reader. Why can’t everyone understand that?” I stare at him and wonder, when did he label himself? It makes me realize the labels I have put on myself. How can I be a good mother and teacher if I don’t recognize the limits I have created.

This is my first entry inspired by the amazing teachers with whom I have had the pleasure of working. This blog all happened so suddenly on a Friday morning at a teacher’s professional development. As I was setting up this blog, the voice in my head kept saying, “Stop! What are you doing? People may actually read this!” I have been thinking of doing this for a while, but that voice always had an excuse. Busy teacher, busy mother of two, busy wife. Busy, busy, busy. But, in reality it is fear. Fear of telling my story, writing out my thoughts for others to see. The label I put on myself is that I’m not a good enough writer. Even as I revise this piece I am fighting my self-imposed restrictions, questioning if I should even post this piece.

If my son is a writer, not a reader, I am a reader, not a writer. I love to read and get lost in an author’s world-leaving my busy self behind, and escaping to the writer’s words and messages. It has always made me feel I could never control words to create that for others. Then I look at my son. Reading as always been trying to him, but he would always write. I’m realizing now he escapes to his own world. Writing words he can read and comprehend. Stories filled with humor he enjoys. He has control.

The labels he and I are putting on ourselves are because of our fear of failure. Like mother, like son I guess. Control freaks all the way. However, I want more for him than his seeing himself simply as a “writer and not a reader.” I have to break out of my own box, and show more of myself, so he can do the same. We both need to stop living in fear. So, that’s why I am going to be a reader that also writes, in hopes that he can see he is so much more than he knows.

Thanks for joining me!

Good company in a journey makes the way seem shorter. — Izaak Walton