Book chats with Danielle: Present Over Perfect

I just finished the book, Present Over Perfect: Leaving Behind Frantic for a Simpler, More Soulful Way of Living by Shauna Niequist. Shauna was a guest on a podcast I listened to a while back, and listening to her talk about this book was compelling because I've suffered from a habit of hustle for most of my adult life.

The subtitle of the book really gives the story away--it essentially narrates her journey from a frantic way of living to a more sustainable, joy-filled life. At the end, Niequest writes,

"[...] I was on a dangerous track, where I was giving the best of myself to people and things 'out there,' while the tender inner core of my life and home were increasingly stretched, pressurized, brittle. And now they're not. Now the most beautiful, well-tended, truly nurtured and nourished parts of my life are the innermost ones, not the flashy public ones. That's just as it should be" (228-229).

This quote really is the heart of the book--how and why we must nurture ourselves.

I think this book likely speaks to many women since the expectation of women in our society is to do all and be all for all. For me, this book came five years too late. In my mid-twenties, I battled with these same pressures and eventually traded my frantic pace of life for a slower one when my husband and I welcomed our second child into our home.

There are ideas from the book that I'll be exploring in the days to come: Which emotional resources of mine have been depleted? How did they become so? Who did God create me to be? How do I fully embrace this? What am I attempting to outrun?

For the most part, though, it was a chore to even finish the book.

In Defense of Jen Hatmaker

If you're a Jen Hatmaker fan, you've likely read (or read about) the interview she did with Religion News Service. Maybe you've even stumbled upon a response to it from super-conservative writers like Matt Walsh. You might know that my girl, Jen, has been ripped to shreds by many Christians. I certainly have some questions for Hatmaker, but I'm not saddened by her response like so many others are. Actually, I'm more saddened by the way Christians have reacted to her interview.

New habits to cut down on excess

Like I mentioned in another post, I'm typically wary of things labeled Christian. I'm even wary sometimes of the church. But Jen Hatmaker's book, Seven: An Experimental Mutiny Against Excess, was strangely refreshing; it was the antidote for my cynical heart. Basically, Jen chose 7 areas (clothes, spending, waste, food, possessions, media, stress) with which to practice simplicity. Each month was devoted to a new focus, and for those 30 or 31 days, she practiced simplicity by either completely cutting out that aspect (for example, social media/TV/radio) or limiting herself to seven things within that aspect (for the clothing month, she chose only 7 items of clothing to wear for the full month). The book takes readers through each month via her journals throughout the process and what she learns on her quest to cut excess. Hint: She learns a lot...and so did I.

My letter to Jen Hatmaker

Right now I'm reading Jen Hatmaker's book, Seven: An Experimental Mutiny Against Excess. I can't recommend the book enough. I rarely read books twice (unless it's a book I'm teaching or it's To Kill a Mockingbird), but I'm pretty sure I'll read this book twice...or three times, or maybe once a year to remind me not to be stupid. It's THAT good. It's so good that I decided to send Jen Hatmaker an email. I know she probably won't read it, but I'm hoping that whoever is in charge of fielding inquiries will pass this one on to her. I'll form a more coherent post about the book later, but until then--here's my letter to Jen (along with a meme I just made...don't worry, I didn't send it to her--I'm not THAT creepy):

Using books to spark conversations of social justice issues

This piece is a partner piece to another post. I didn't want to overwhelm readers with a super long post. Essentially, this is a list of books I've found recently to be good entry points to tough conversations about social justice with our kids. We need these conversations now more than ever. So, check with your local libraries or local bookstores to see if they have these titles! As my kids age, I'll continue to expand my list of books for older kids :) If you have a favorite book to teach kids about the world, leave the title and a brief description in the comments section!

Grades Pre-K-K: 
A is for Activist:  We haven't read this book, but I came across it when searching for books to add to our

library. From what I understand, it's a visually appealing board book that moves through the alphabet but not in a watered down, A is for apple fashion. For example, "A is for Activist. /Advocate./ Abolitionist. Ally./ Actively Answering A call to Action. [...] Y is for Your. And Youth./ Your planet. Your rights/Your future. Your truth./ Y is for Yes. Yes! Yes! Yes!"  The Amazon review says the book is for kids ages 2 and up; I never had a 2 year old, but it seems like these words might be too advanced for them, which is why I categorized it in Pre-K/K. In fact, I've even added it to our Amazon list to order for my almost 2nd graders. There's a similar book called Counting on Community that addresses the concept of community while also teaching numbers.

A Picture of Courage

Currently my juniors are wrapping up the year with the memoir Night. If you haven't read this gripping account of Elie Wiesel's struggle to survive in a concentration camp during WWII, you must add it to your summer reading list. My students' final is to compose an ekphrastic poem (poetry that speaks to art) on the subject of intolerance. They had to first find an image that displayed an act of intolerance or action against intolerance, some image that really spoke to them and evoked a sense of emotion. I think this was frightening waters for many students because we (society and school) have taught them to stuff their emotions down. The day we searched for images, there were many misty eyes in my room.

Much of our reading this year has, in some way, led us to an exploration of the dangers of intolerance or indifference. As an example piece, the other junior teacher and I had our students study the poem "To the Little Polish Boy Standing With His Arms Up" by another Holocaust survivor, Peter Fischl. He wrote the poem in response to a photograph he saw in Life magazine. You can read the full text here; but you also should watch him read his poem (at the end of this post) as his reading is packed with emotion. I cried the day I showed it to my students. On Monday, we'll all be showing the images we picked and then performing our poems for the class. I'm excited to see what the kids produce.

I always try and write alongside the kids, so here's my attempt at ekphrastic poetry (shout out to Bob for helping me revise!):

A Picture of Courage

She is a picture of courage.

16 years old, books held tightly to her breast,

left arm at her side--

her dark skin a contrast to her starched white dress.

The white dress covering the darkness

of her skin--

a storm hidden in clouds.

She tries to look collected and unphased,

but her eyebrows tell a different story--

furrowed and to a point, dipping below the sunglasses

that mask the rage in her eyes.

She is a picture of courage.

She moves towards those coveted doors--

Central High School--

a mob following close behind

yet keeping their distance

as if her skin color were contagious.

She is a picture of courage.

A white woman is five paces behind,

her face scrunched into a scream--

a fit of rage, hurling words that sting worse

than shattered glass.

I wonder if this woman, this grown white woman,

knows that her face will be made famous--

not for its natural beauty,

but for its display of hatred.

Will her children see this and

fear this very rage will be unleashed on them?

I hope her children ask her why she is so angry

at this black girl, five paces ahead,

16 years old, books held tightly to her breast,

left arm at her side--

her dark skin a contrast to her starched white dress--

the girl who tries to look collected and unphased

by their mother’s indignation.

And when their mother stumbles on an answer

to their question, as she chokes on the logic

behind her own madness,

I hope they realize

she was wrong.  

I  hope they realize that the world is not

better off as one monochromatic image like this photo.

I hope they see the world as better off

in technicolor.

Don't forget to watch Peter Fischl read his poem!

The Power of Language

My juniors and I are currently reading Kindred, and this week we're studying the power of language. We've read some fabulous pieces about how language is used to oppress, how a word can change meanings based on the context, and today we read about how language can offer restoration as we read Jimmy Santiago Baca's essay, "Coming into Language." My students were captivated as we read the piece out loud. It's a powerful piece that leaves me breathless each time I read it. Tonight they are writing about their experiences with language--how the written or spoken word has impacted them. I'm anxious to read their pieces. As a whole, they're kind of a hesitant group. I'm not sure they've been asked to do much personal writing or sharing of their writing. They were very panicky about this, so I  had to give them a pep talk about the importance of sharing our work and experiences in order to build community and learn from one another's experiences. I'm still not sure they completely bought into it...

I told them I'd write my own piece and bring it to class to share. I've done this before with them, and each time they're a bit taken aback, and I can tell that some find it unnerving that their teacher is sharing a piece of her life with them. So tomorrow I'll unnerve them again by sharing this piece:

It was my senior year, and I was 17. My close friends, the ones who saw the real me--the me without the mask--had graduated and left for college or to pursue jobs, and I was left behind in my dusty, factory speckled town. A usual symptom of youth is a discontentedness with one's community, and I was no exception. I couldn't wait to leave. I didn't know where I wanted to go, but I knew I wanted out. Feeling a bit abandoned, I took to reading books. I read Tom Robbins, Kurt Vonnegut, John Steinbeck, and Jack Kerouac among others. I pictured myself hoboing with Kerouac, and time traveling to be a fruit-picker in California, and for the first time I dreamed of becoming a writer. I ate lunch with Steinbeck--outside when the weather was nice leaning on a tree that sat near the front of my high school or inside on an 80s looking wooden cube--carpeted on top and with rounded edges that sat in front of my English classroom. I rekindled my childhood love-affair with the public library and spent afternoons after school reading on the floor upstairs where it was the quietest. My previous three years of high school had been incredibly social, but this year I became more introverted and found a sort of peace in this newfound solitude. Perhaps it was because I wasn't really alone; my books provided me with companionship. At the end of the year, I found myself declaring a major in English. I was to be a modern beatnik poet--without all the hitchhiking. For a graduation gift, a family friend gave me a dark brown leather journal. The cover was soft and the pages inside were crisp and earth-toned. I spent that summer writing pages of poems and songs and later took it with me to college--those pages helped me process some difficult moments in life: a troubling relationship and later a devastating heartbreak, an unexpected bout of homesickness, a wild phase where I tested my limits with alcohol, and eventually self discovery. Books and writing carried me to new places within myself I didn't know existed before that year. And still, when I let them, they sweep me up in a wave of introspection that muddies the waters but almost always leaves me feeling clean and calm afterwards. 

Spoken Word Poetry: Reconciling My Apartment Complex

My brother in-law, Pat, sent me this poem after we had a conversation a few weeks ago about moving into an apartment complex. It's a beautiful piece about community that really hit me between the eyes. As a teacher, I always say I value community, and I encourage my students to engage in their community.

But engaging in community is not my first inclination. By nature I am an introvert; I prefer a night at home with my husband over a crowded room full of people. I'm self-conscious, and I think that makes me a little self-absorbed. And as I listened to this poem I found myself desiring a certain lack of restraint with my neighbors. I want to drop the cynicism that so often frames my perception when I meet new people so that I can engage more fully.

That's my hope with this new move--to engage with my neighbors on a deeper level....now I just need a place to live ;)

Thoughts on teaching "To Kill a Mockingbird"

I love spring. Longer days and warmer weather seem to put life back into perspective for me. I've always been a bit of a tom-boy--but I adore flowy skirts; I pull them out as soon as the weather reaches 55 degrees. Spring also means that I get to teach To Kill a Mockingbird...my absolute favorite book. I read it my 9th grade year of high school but don't remember any of it. I wasn't mature enough to appreciate literature until my junior year (that's when I fell in love with the transcendental writers and began musing about being an English teacher). I re-read the book again during my first year of teaching as I scrambled to find something to fill the last month of my 11th grade English class. The wise Language Arts teacher across the hall from me suggested I teach it, "The kids always love it," she remarked. So I took home a copy that night, started it after dinner and found myself still reading at 3 AM that night. I finished it in two days.

Since then I've taught the book three different times to three diverse groups of students. I'm currently teaching the book again to 66 students in my English 9 class. Though it's the fourth or fifth time I've read the book, I still find myself laughing at the kids' adventures and  and crying during the Tom Robinson trial. Countless times I've tried to convince my dear husband to name our daughter Scout or our son Atticus. Unfortunately, he doesn't share my affinity for the novel! Tonight my students are to read chapter 11 of the novel--where we meet Mrs. Dubose. Tonight I re-read the chapter again and am trying to plan the right activity that allows my students to see Mrs. Dubose for who she really is: a picture of courage. Like Atticus tells Scout and Jem, I want my students to "...see what real courage is, instead of getting the idea that courage is a man with a gun in his hand. It's when you know you're licked before you begin but you begin anyway and you see it through no matter what. You rarely win, but sometimes you do" (Lee, 116). I'm not sure what activity I'll do tomorrow with my students...sometimes I wake up at three in the morning with ideas. Hopefully that happens tonight.

I think what I struggle with so much while teaching this book is knowing that many kids probably aren't reading the book. Though I'd like to think that all of them are reading the novel, I know many (probably more than I know) will rely on Spark Notes or a friend to clue them in about the book rather than reading it for themselves. I forget that not every 14 or 15 year old kid shares my passion for a carefully turned phrase. However, I hope they notice that dream-like trance I get when talking about the book. I hope they hear the quiver in my voice when I read the chapter where Atticus tells Tom Robinson's wife that her husband (an innocent man who is deemed guilty only because of the color of his skin) is dead. I hope they understand why I have them share lessons they've learned while growing up, memories from their own childhood, times their own parents mortified them and then turned around and made them proud. I hope all of the above motivates even a few to look past the difficult vocabulary and the fact that it's an "old" book to actually read it.

If you haven't read To Kill a Mockingbird since you were in high school, you need to. It truly is a timeless classic! 

It was a good movie because it was an honest movie...

A perfect end to a day? Watching Midnight in Paris with my husband. I know it wasn't his favorite movie--but he sat through it, pausing the movie every now and then so I could record quotes I found insightful. In fact the title of this post is adapted from a quote in the movie by the character who plays Hemingway. He states (regarding Farewell to Arms), "It was a good book because it was an honest book..."

The movie is a nice blend of honesty, longing, and intellect. Not only is the script tasteful and the camera shots beautiful, but I love the romance behind the film. I loved Owen Wilson's character--a writer and a dreamer. I'm sure many writers identify with his character. I've always had big dreams...when I was a 17 year-old, I longed for city streets, for the stage by night, and poetry by day. I pictured myself in the plots of Kerouac books, meeting interesting people who spoke in poems. And in college when I realized I couldn't make it as a full-time actress, I planned on teaching to support my writing habits. That was when I scrawled lines on napkins, in the margins of newspapers, on coffee sleeves, and anything else that would absorb ink. Now as a teacher, I start every class period with writing---and when I transition students from journaling to class time, I can't help but smile at the students who continue to madly finish their lines as I begin teaching the day's lesson wishing secretly that I too was writing.


I digress. I loved Midnight in Paris. When it ended, I went back to the scene where Gil (Owen Wilson) first meets Hemingway....that conversation is so saturated with priceless lines...I'll end with my favorite from Hemingway: "No subject is terrible if the story is true, if the prose is clean and honest, and if it affirms courage and grace under pressure."So beautiful. Bottom line: pick up a copy of Midnight in Paris, and if you're a literary nerd like me--you might as well just buy a copy because you won't want to return your Netflix rental!

"John Steinbeck on Falling in Love..."

So...I didn't live up to my promise about posting something non-thesis related before the weekend concluded....I just couldn't tear myself away from my thesis, which, I guess is a good thing.....

But a promise is a promise...even to an unidentifiable group of people who may or may not read this....I digress. While scoping out Twitter on Friday, I came across this article posted on The Atlantic: John Steinbeck on Falling in Love: A 1958 Letter.
Steinbeck is one of the greatest American writers and is the author of one of my all time favorites, Travels With Charley. The letter posted in The Atlantic is a response to his son after hearing that his son was in love...it's completely endearing and makes me fall deeper in love with him. The end quote in the article sums the letter up better than I can, "Steinbeck's words of wisdom—tender, optimistic, timeless, infinitely sagacious—should be etched onto the heart and mind of every living, breathing human being."

Ted Kooser Sighting

I realize this post will elevate my nerd status to an all time high, but I just have to share this....

On Monday I enjoyed a little writing time at The Mill in downtown Lincoln. I was deep in thought about my thesis (more about that later), I looked up from my computer screen and saw....TED KOOSER! If you don't know---Ted is one of our most famous Nebraska poets. In fact, he was the United States Poet Laureate from 2004-2006...and I happen to love him. This year I read his poetry collection Blizzard Voices, his prose book Local Wonders (I read that one twice), and his guide book The Poetry Home Repair Manual. This man is amazing. The first time I heard him read was in Kearney, and I cried. Most people my age don't cry when they see famous people...that's usually reserved for crazed 13 year old Justin Bieber fans. When I met him a few summers ago at UNL, I couldn't even get words out of my mouth. I just thrust my copy of the Poetry Home Repair Manual in his knobby hands. He looked at me for awhile and with a sweet voice asked me what my name was and scribbled, "For Danielle" and then signed his name.

Soon after arriving at The Mill he settled in for some writing. I wanted so badly to go talk to him. In fact, when I went to refill my coffee mug, I walked towards his table and had all intentions of stopping to tell him how much I appreciate his sense of observation, but when I saw that he was writing, I let him be. He looked so peaceful, sitting hunched over at the two person table, writing---I didn't want to interrupt that. So, instead---I hurried back to my table, drank my coffee, wrote, and watched Ted Kooser from the corner of my eye.

He didn't stick around long. After about 15 minutes of writing, he put his notebook in his pocket and headed out the door. I left soon after. On my way to my car, I composed a poem to remember the moment. It's nothing spectacular, but it will help me to remember the moment I wrote alongside Ted Kooser.

Ted Kooser Sighting
Today as I wrote at The Mill,
Nebraska writer and former Poet Laureate Ted Kooser walked in.
He walked to the bathrooms and nobody took notice.
I couldn't believe it.
I wanted to jump up and shout, "Ted Kooser everybody!"
Instead I posted on Facebook that he had walked by me...
and I thought how funny he would find that.

A writer in disguise---camel colored canvas jacket
with brown corduroy elbow patches and faded blue jeans.
He sat facing the front window with nothing but
a pocket-sized notebook and a pen.

A friend recommended that I take a picture with him.
I wanted to tap him on the shoulder and say,
Sorry to bother you Ted---
(I'd call him Ted because Mr. Kooser seems too stuffy for this ordinary, old man)
but I just wanted to say I'm a huge fan.
But he looked so peaceful---
sitting alone at that two-person table, writing.

I watched him work
and wondered if he rose early this morning to write
in that little library shack of his
with Buddy, his English Pointer, by his side.

I never spoke to him--
I left him alone.
I watched, and wondered, and wrote
content just to be near this ordinary, old man.

The Dharma Bums: Part II

Today Nate and I ventured to Lake Mac to enjoy the nice weather. He watched Avatar and I finished The Dharma Bums. Like I mentioned in an earlier post--I loved this book in high school because I wanted to be that wandering traveler that the main character is. But this time I liked the book for different reasons (though I don't agree with the Buddhism spoken of in the book, but that's a topic for a new post...).

A small part of me still desires to be nomadic. But even more of me craves the simplistic lifestyle practiced by so many of the characters in the book. Sometimes I am so of this world---I desire things more than I crave relationships with God and people. I sometimes strive for man's approval, and I am great at wasting time doing worthless activities. This second read really made me rethink how I live.

Another aspect of the book I love is the writing style. It rambles on and on switching from thought to thought with endless run-on sentences and lacks "proper" punctuation, but it all works. It fits with the rambling and traveling the characters do. Here are some of my favorite excerpts from the book:

• "But let the mind beware, that though the flesh be bugged, the circumstances of existence are pretty glorious" (238).
  
• "...see the whole ting is a world full of rucksack wanderers, Dharma Bums refusing to subscribe to the general demand that they consume production and therefore have to work for the privilege of consuming, all the crap they didn't really want anyway such as refrigerators, TV sets, cars, at least new fancy cars, certain hair oils an deodorants and general junk you finally always see a week later in the garbage anyway, all of them imprisoned in a system of work, produce, consume, work produce, consume, I see a vision of a great rucksack revolution thousands or even millions of young Americans wandering around with rucksacks, going up to mountains to pray, making children laugh and old men glad, making young girls happy and old girls happier, all of 'em Zen Lunatics who go about writing poems that happen to appear in their heads for no reason and also by being kind and also by strange unexpected acts keep giving visions of eternal freedom to everybody and all living creatures..." (98).
• "Japhy [a main character] was considered an eccentric around the campus, which is the usual thing for campuses and college people to think whenever a real man appears on the scene---colleges being nothing by grooming schools for the middle-class non-identity which usually finds its perfect expression on the outskirts of the campus in rows of well-to-do houses with lawns and television sets in each living room with everybody looking at the same thing and thinking the same thing at the same time while" (38-39).
  

If you haven't read The Dharma Bums and are looking for a good summer read, pick it up. You won't be disappointed!

The Dharma Bums Part I

My senior year of high school (six years ago), I was enthralled with Jack Kerouac. I ate up his books. I'd skip my law class so I could wander to a nearby park and read Kerouac. I wanted so badly to be a wandering beatnik who delighted in simply existing. My favorite book of his is The Dhamra Bums--not one of his well known books--I came across it via a good friend's recommendation. At the time, the public library was my haven---we had no internet at home, so I paid a quarter an hour to send emails back and forth to my boyfriend who lived two hours away. I did my homework near the small art gallery that housed locals' artwork on the second floor and a few times a week, I'd check out new books: Steinbeck, Robbins, Kerouac, etc. I found The Dharma Bums tucked away in some odd place in the library. I loved this book. I considered stealing it, just not returning it...but I loved it so much that I returned it in hopes that some other dreamer like myself would come across it and fall in love with it as much as I did.

Once I finished reading it, I began my search for a used copy of the book. But it couldn't be a used copy from Amazon or Ebay...I had to buy it from a bookstore. So the hunt began. I searched high and low at any bookstore I wandered into, but could not find a copy...until last summer. One afternoon in July I wandered into Bluestem Books like I had so many times before, greeted the kind-faced old man of a storeowner and asked him if he gotten any copies of The Bums in. "Actually..." he started and then led me to the Kerouac section of the store. I found it there---it had just recently been marked down from $15 to $6. I also bought a book of Gary Snyder poetry that day. I had all intentions of sending The Dharma Bums to the friend who recommended the book to me....but, my selfish desires got the best of me, and I sent him the Snyder book instead (which...he probably enjoyed more anyway).

The book has been sitting on my bookshelf near other more obscure Kerouac books (Orpheous Emerged, Lonesome Traveler and his well known book On The Road) for just about a year. But a few weeks ago a friend and I got to talking books. I found through gentle prodding that he had not read The Dharma Bums. So I insisted that he take my copy and read it. He did...and he loved it...it's not surprising since it really is a literary masterpiece (more about that to come). After chatting with said friend about the book, I decided that I would read it again this summer. So---late Thursday night I started reading the book. I read a few hours yesterday and an hour today and am hoping to finish it today (if I can procrastinate my graduate homework any longer). I've been scribbling insights on my bookmark and found that I have ran out of room...so...this weekend I will post my insights/ramblings about the book where I have unlimited space :) If you're interested, be watching for another post on 'Da Bums!

When Famous People Lie...

As I drank my morning coffee and browsed my Google Reader account for compelling stories to read on this overcast morning, I came across a NY Times article titled, 'Three Cups of Tea' Author Defends Book.

If you aren't familiar with the book Three Cups of Tea, I'll give you a brief summary: it's a memoir about Greg Mortenson's time in Pakistan and Afghanistan and what inspired him to create the Central Asia Institute charity that works to fund and build schools primarily for girls in both Pakistan and Afghanistan. This summer I picked up the young reader's edition in hopes that it might be a book I could teach to my Reading students. Though I decided against teaching it, I did love the book. It was a beautiful and inspirational story.

But due to a snippet on last night's 60 Minutes, today the headlines declare that Mortenson now has to defend some of the truth in his book. As I read the article, I imagined that people will be outraged about the possibilities that some of his book (a best-seller) might have been fabricated. As I read the article I wasn't outraged; instead I was dumbfounded--why should this surprise us? Why should it surprise us that he may have fudged on a few details of his narrative? We (common, non-famous, average joe folk) do it all of the time. Is it the morally correct thing to do? No. But what I'm trying to get at is sometimes we read books, listen to music and watch movies and take it all for absolute truth when, in all reality, it can't be absolute truth. We're humans...we have an inclination to fabricate. Nothing is absolute truth...well, nothing except the Bible.

Thoughs from the book of John

This weekend I started reading the book of John again. Ever since I started to grasp the concept of having a personal relationship with Christ, I've been drawn to the gospel of John. Along with Romans and Acts, this book taught me a lot when I was a new Christian--and every time I read it, it comes alive in a new way...it's invigorating. I've only read the first two chapters this weekend, but here's what's stuck out to me this time around:

First...

"God sent a man, John the Baptist, to tell about the light so that everyone might believe because of his testimony. John himself was not the light; he was simply a witness to tell about the light. The one who is the true light, who gives light to everyone, was coming into the world. He came into the very world he created, but the world didn't recognize him. He came to his own people, and even they rejected him. But to all who believed him and accepted him, he gave the right to become children of God. They are reborn--not with a physical birth resulting from human passion or plan, but a birth that comes from God." --John 1: 6-13

Last week a friend and I had a conversation about Jack Kerouac's Dharma Bums...one of my favorites. He asked why I liked it; I explained that I was 17 when I first read it and it was a portrait of the life I always dreamed of having. I clung to the book and dreamed up different lives for myself--in one life I was living in downtown New York, acting in a few shows here and there, writing during the day, drinking and smoking with interesting people at night conversing about the probability of time travel and the beauty that lies within simplistic living. In another life, I traveled across the country stopping here and there long enough to make enough money to get me to the next destination. I lived primarily in the back of my vehicle or in tents high up in the mountains beneath a velvet, starry sky. I loved The Dharma Bums because I knew I wasn't ballsy enough to take the risks associated with either of those lives; I could live vicariously through the novel. I explained this condensed version to my friend and he responded with, "Let's face it, if it weren't for the saving grace of Christ you would be chained to a tree at a logging facility in protest, burning candles and chanting in between meals of all-natural yogurt and free-range wheat germ, all while stoned on cheap wine and expensive weed." And though this might be a slight (and humorous) exaggeration, it set my thoughts ablaze. Without that rebirth John writes about in his first chapter, I would be a totally different person....I'd be lost; it scares me to think of how far off I'd be without Christ. I'm continually amazed at the concept of grace...I am totally unworthy of the kind of grace God has given me; yet...I am His.

Next...

"Because of the miraculous signs Jesus did in Jerusalem at the Passover celebration, many began to trust in him. But Jesus didn't trust them, because he knew human nature. No one needed to tell him what mankind is really like."

I don't think this passage needs much explaining. It makes me think about the many times where my faith has been superficial and conditional--and dependent on a crowd and lots of obvious signs and flashy things. And thinking about these times makes me ashamed.

As I continue learning from the book of John, I'll try to post more of my thoughts. They'll be fragmented and not very eloquent, so if you are interested in that kind of thing...check back :)

"The Road and the End"

My English 12 students are currently wrapping up a poetry unit. We only had a few weeks, but students used Poets.org and PoetryFoundation.org to research a poet of their choice and create a project that illustrated pivotal moments in their lives with poems using Prezi and Blogger. We squeezed in Lawrence Ferlinghetti, Naomi Shihab Nye and Carl Sandburg into our class discussions and had a fabulous time reading and sharing. Students were finding and reading poems and then staying after class to discuss them--it was beautiful, truly an English teacher's dream.

Currently students are explicating one of the several poems we discussed in class---today, a student pulled the headphones from her ears and said, "Ms. Helzer have you ever read The Road and The End by Carl Sandburg?" I have read a lot of Carl Sandburg--but this is one that I had not read until today. It's a breathtaking piece that I thought I'd share:

The Road and the End

by Carl Sandburg

Carl Sandburg

I shall foot it

Down the roadway in the dusk,

Where shapes of hunger wander

And the fugitives of pain go by.

I shall foot it

In the silence of the morning,

See the night slur into dawn,

Hear the slow great winds arise

Where tall trees flank the way

And shoulder toward the sky.

The broken boulders by the road

Shall not commemorate my ruin.

Regret shall be the gravel under foot.

I shall watch for

Slim birds swift of wing

That go where wind and ranks of thunder

Drive the wild processionals of rain.

The dust of the traveled road

Shall touch my hands and face.

The Word That Is A Prayer

This week a friend of mine sent me this poem. I read it once, rather quickly, and didn't really think anything of it. But when I revisited the piece a few days later when I had more time, I was moved--almost to tears. It reminds me so much of how I've felt over the past three years as we've gone through the gamut of emotions associated with infertility and adoption. It's such a powerful piece...enjoy!

The Word That Is a Prayer

One thing you know when you say it:
all over the earth people are saying it with you;
a child blurting it out as the seizures take her,
a woman reciting it on a cot in a hospital.
What if you take a cab through the Tenderloin:
at a street light, a man in a wool cap,
yarn unraveling across his face, knocks at the window;
he says, Please.
By the time you hear what he’s saying,
the light changes, the cab pulls away,
and you don’t go back, though you know
someone just prayed to you the way you pray.
Please: a word so short
it could get lost in the air
as it floats up to God like the feather it is,
knocking and knocking, and finally
falling back to earth as rain,
as pellets of ice, soaking a black branch,
collecting in drains, leaching into the ground,
and you walk in that weather every day.

--Ellery Akers

Aimless Love

As I mentioned in a previous post, tonight I read through a few poems written by Billy Collins. He's one of my all-time favorite poets--I first read his work during my Writing Poetry class with Dr. Charles Fort. Collins was buried in a $90 anthology I bought for the class, but I read over and over his poems and tried (with failure!) to mimic his style. Later on in my undergraduate career, Billy Collins's work as our Poet Laureate became the foundations for a research project a professor and I worked on. I have wonderful memories of losing myself for hours in Billy Collins poems at the Coffee House in Lincoln.

Tonight I revisited his book Nine Horses. I thumbed through and read five or six poems and came across one that I had dog-eared several years ago called Aimless Love. Tonight I fell in love with the poem...again. Enjoy.

Aimless Love

This morning as I walked along the lakeshore,
I fell in love with a wren
and later in the day with a mouse
the cat had dropped under the dining room table.

In the shadows of an autumn evening,
I fell for a seamstress
still at her machine in the tailor’s window,
and later for a bowl of broth,
steam rising like smoke from a naval battle.

This is the best kind of love, I thought,
without recompense, without gifts,
or unkind words, without suspicion,
or silence on the telephone.

The love of the chestnut,
the jazz cap and one hand on the wheel.

No lust, no slam of the door -
the love of the miniature orange tree,
the clean white shirt, the hot evening shower,
the highway that cuts across Florida.

No waiting, no huffiness, or rancor -
just a twinge every now and then

for the wren who had built her nest
on a low branch overhanging the water
and for the dead mouse,
still dressed in its light brown suit.

But my heart is always propped up
in a field on its tripod,
ready for the next arrow.

After I carried the mouse by the tail
to a pile of leaves in the woods,
I found myself standing at the bathroom sink
gazing down affectionately at the soap,

so patient and soluble,
so at home in its pale green soap dish.
I could feel myself falling again
as I felt its turning in my wet hands
and caught the scent of lavender and stone.

- Billy Collins -

What I've Learned This Week

1. I love John Steinbeck. I've read some of his short stories, The Grapes of Wrath, Travels With Charley (my all time favorite book), Of Mice and Men, and now I'm reading Cannery Row. It's been my running companion for the past week; the weather has been rather crappy--so I've been forced to run inside on a treadmill (boo!), but it's been much easier with Cannery Row to accompany me. I get so wrapped up in his descriptions--I find myself smiling as I read.

2. Patience, to rely on prayer, and be thankful. This week has been trying on my patience. On Sunday I just about had a nervous breakdown as I thought about my growing to-do list. Until Wednesday, we still hadn't heard from our case worker about starting the home study process. I have one class of students who doesn't seem to be learning anything this year. We're waiting to hear back on certain opportunities. I'm working on trying to plan a workshop I'll be leading at a conference in Arkansas in a few weeks and am realizing that I'm completely afraid of crashing and burning. And I'm tired of people who are removed from the classroom making decisions for "what is best" in the classroom without first listening to those of us who actually work in the classrooms. I've had a pretty crappy attitude this week, and at the back of my mind there was a nagging voice that kept telling me to sit down and pray. The whole week I just kept telling that annoying voice that I wasn't in the mood to pray--that I'd pray when I was ready. This week I've been reading through Colossians, and all week I avoided the references to being thankful that pop up in the four short chapters. But yesterday morning and this morning, I could no longer avoid them. One verse really jumped out at me this morning:

"Devote yourself to prayer with an alert mind and a thankful heart."
--Colossians 4:2

I realize today what made my week so crappy: me. A lack of prayer, patience, and thankfulness turned me into a grouch. I have so much to be thankful for: salvation, a devoted husband, a career where I can really make a difference in the world, family who is always willing to listen (my poor mom heard an earful this week), good music (that's really what pulled me through the week), financial stability, and so much more. In a few hours I'll set out on a four mile run--it's a great time to pray.

3. It's okay to put my job on the back burner sometimes. Each night this week I took time to write, read, and run rather than grading papers and responding to emails---and it was awesome.

4. This half-marathon training is kicking me in the rear. I love the challenge of running...most days :) But as we inch further along in our half-marathon training, the time devoted to training grows longer and longer and the bulk of our training just happens to be during our busiest time of the year: musical season. It's going to be a crazy March and April. I hope we can stay on top of everything. I want our musical to be a success--but I also want to run the entire half-marathon this year...no walking. It's going to take a lot of prayer and better time management (less time spent on Facebook).