Writing

I have decided to shun Facebook for the month of May.

It's not that I think it is completely worthless, or that it only has a destructive influence, but I do find myself spending an inordinate amount of time, and lending an inordinate amount of importance to staring at my tiny phone screen and composing witty answers to friends' posts.

My answer to that is the occasional detox. I remove the application from my home screen on my phone (so I do not see that tempting little red 1 (or a 4!! OMG a 4!!). And I spend a lot more time reading and writing.

I just finished re-reading Stephen King's book, On Writing. I will admit, here and publicly, that I am a great fan of King. Not only do I enjoy his twisted sense of the macabre, but I find that he is an incredible storyteller and observer of the human condition. He has the reputation among some for being "merely" a pulp fiction writer, fit for airplane rides and guilty pleasure reading. But then, many people also view science fiction literature as vapid tales with no literary value or grounding in the real world (these people have not read the right sci-fi authors ;)

Brilliance and vision are often challenging. We are pushed out of our normal world. The world presented can seem fantastic, and probably in many ways is, but if it is done well, we feel resonance. We recognize ourselves (or someone we know) in the story, and that is when we are pulled in, thrilled, and our minds are ready to experience something new. THAT is good storytelling. And King has it down.

On Writing is not a thrilling tale of the macabre. It is part biography, part writing course, and part motivational speech. King has written about himself, and about the craft of writing. And his writing here as always is engaging, humorous, and natural. I have found myself re-inspired to hone this skill, to view this as a daily practice, then see what comes.

One of my favorite images from this book is one he uses to describe how ideas come. He talks about unearthing fossils. Stories, he argues, are not so much created as they are "found objects." The task of the writer is to tease these delicate bones from the earth with as little casualty as possible. I love this image, and it rings so true for me.

I know the feeling when I have found something to tell, something that I feel deserves to be studied and communicated. I never see it all at once. I see the edge of a tooth jutting from the soil. And I can sense that there is a whole lot more underneath. If the right tools are at hand, the fossil can be unearthed, reconstructed and shown to the amazement and enjoyment of others.

So instead of watching funny animals do tricks and moaning about the weather on Facebook, this month I will spend a little more time at my writing desk.

I am inspired to look, and to dig, and to share what I find. I hope that you will enjoy reading what I unearth. :)

Waking Up

It has been a long time since I have written anything.

There are a few reasons for that. One is that my work this school year has been incredibly intense. I lost my wonderful colleague for the most wonderful of reasons. In December she took off to have her first baby, a girl. This left an open space that was difficult for the school to fill. I ended up with many people (all of  them great people) working to fill the gaps. In February my permanent colleague arrived (back from having her first child!). And we have started to work in earnest to rebuild the culture of the classroom. Not only did the German lead teacher position change multiple times, but there were changes in the assistant staff as well. The result being, that a good deal of the weight fell on my shoulders, and I found myself training adults for the majority of the school year.

This has absorbed much of my creative energy.

But the reasons for my silent keyboard are not all negative. I have also had some really wonderful people come into my life. I have spent these last months with a lot of laughter, deep conversation, and fun.

What I really want to write about this morning is gratitude. A little over a year ago I was in a very dark place. I felt hopeless and broken and did not believe that I would ever really feel whole again. At this time I was taken in by friends, supported and loved by family, but I still felt that each day was simply a matter of survival. When I look back at myself then, and try to remember how I felt, I did not think that I had hope. But I kept working. At my job, on myself, in my life. And the people who stuck with me during this time gave me that extra shove I needed from time to time (because we all stumble).

Slowly things began to change. One of the first changes was the apartment where I now live. I moved in here last August, and began my school year only a few weeks after I moved, so I have not really had a lot of time to live in it. Yes, there was some time over Christmas when I was not working, but anyone who knows me knows what a child of the sun I am. To really "live" in a place, I need to see it in the light of day, to throw the windows open in the morning and to smell the air.

This morning I woke up to the sound of birdsong, with sunlight coming in the windows and a green-scented breeze drifting in from the park next door. My eyes were greeted by the green and white of great old chestnut trees in bloom. I do not hear traffic. As I lay in bed my soul is soothed by these things. I am going to work in my garden today, repairing the neglect it has suffered during my own time of suffering.

A feeling of wholeness and strength now accompanies me each day. I am in a way both humbled by my experiences and proud of having come out the other end in the way that I did.

And I am grateful.

Grateful for the space and time that I was given to heal, grateful for those who loved me through this and who are with me still, grateful for new hope and life that I feel so present now. Grateful to be here.

So, a little check-in to let you all know I am still here and there is more writing to come. It has been a quiet time after the storm. Now it is time to begin a new day.

Thaw

Spring emerges in my heart.
The hard frozen ground, a kind of protection through the long winter, warms in the gentle sun.
New life pushes through the earth, stretching towards the light.
Tiny bell shaped clusters of snowdrops bow in humble recognition of their own existence.
Gratitude like sun-warmed stones soothes old wounds,
now like companions, understood and accepted.
Strength flows like the quickening of sap in my veins
and I know that I will bloom.

Revolution and Revelation

As a teacher, I am presented every day with the view of humans as developing and changing beings. When going through training as a teacher, and especially as a Montessori teacher, you are presented with the distinct stages that each human passes through on the road to adulthood. You are also presented with the idea that development is somehow complete at that magical point of adulthood, and that what you end with is forever determined by what you developed during these early stages. Kind of like, you are stuck with what you got or did not get as you grew up.

Now, what I observe as a human being in myself and in the other beings in my life, is that this is really not the case. Not as long as we are open and willing to evolve.

What I see, in myself and in those who I have had the privilege to be close to in times of change, is that we have many chances to "make up" what we did not get, or what was poorly learned in an early stage. When presented with crisis, or catastrophic change, a child will simply adapt. It is the nature of a child to adapt. Some of these adaptations are not so helpful later in life, especially when one has adapted to a negative environment. The adult presented with crisis or catastrophic change will often fight it, even to his or her grave detriment. If we as adults find a way to let go, to approach the world as new and fresh as we did as children, we have a chance to change. We have a chance to grow, even beyond hurts that happened long ago.

I see this in a kind of coil or spiral shape. We are always moving in a line, outward and forward, but the line will approach, again and again, the approximate same point. At those moments we have a chance to build on that point, to move beyond a certain moment in our past. If we succeed, if we have enough courage to let go and learn and change and grow, then we are catapulted into a new and changed kind of life. Reborn. And I believe that in a life well lived this happens again and again. If done well, the results are increasingly more subtle, but always revelatory and renewing.

These are my thought as I move into a new year.

To have the chance to see this change, in oneself or in someone close to you, is precious. It takes a lot of courage to live and grow and love in this world. I salute each being who has the courage to do so.