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There are moments in life that - no matter what words we use - will never adequately convey the power of a moment.
This was one of those moments...
If I ever have a movie made about my life, I think that I want this to be the final scene.
Showing posts with label Best-Deep. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Best-Deep. Show all posts
Thursday, January 5, 2012
Wednesday, December 21, 2011
Sometimes, it's Not the Packaging...
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Sometimes greatest gifts come in the most unexpected of packaging…
I walked back to my desk on Monday of this week to pick something up, and that’s when I saw the note. It sat there, inconspicuously, like a secret message passed from a friend back from when I was still in school.
I glanced at it and saw the writing on the front, claiming that it was from my ‘silent student’. According to the message, it was to be read only during the Christmas break…not while we were still in school.
I slipped the note onto the shelf behind my desk and there it lay, catching my eye every now and again. However, it was more a mild curiosity than anything else.
It was later that afternoon that package arrived, it silently appeared on my desk as if placed there by Hogwart’s house elves. It lay, unassumingly, wrapped in a sheet of notebook paper. The handwriting—5th grade chicken scratch—was the exact same as on the note which had mysteriously appeared earlier during the day.
The message on this little package was clearly written: OPEN IT.
However, the bell had just rung, indicating that lunch recess had come to an end. So as my class filtered into the room, I set the package aside and began to teach.
The parcel lay on my desk throughout the day, not moving or drawing attention to itself in any way. Near the end of the afternoon, one of my students—I’ll call him Joey—approached me and asked if I’d opened any of my gifts yet. He glanced over to my desk where a few neatly wrapped boxes and bags lay.
I replied that I hadn’t.
He nodded, looked as if he were about to say something, then appeared to change his mind.
He walked away.
Throughout the rest of the day Joey stole glances to my desk, and the package that was wrapped so diametrically unlike than any of the others there.
When he left at the end of the day he wished me a good evening, glanced at the desk one final time, and then ushered himself from the room.
I began to correct assignments, enter scores, and clean up the messes left behind from 29 little people. As I passed my desk, the small haphazardly wrapped gift caught my eye.
Overcome with curiosity, I picked it up. It was light and flexible…whatever was inside wasn’t very heavy.
I carefully pulled away one side of the wrapping, that’s when I saw the tie.
It was ugly—probably something from this boy’s dad’s closet, or one he found at the local thrift store.
I cringed as I looked at the gaudy pattern that—in the gray parts—made it appear to be filthy. You see, I’m very particular of the ties I wear four of the five days of the week, and this one wouldn’t have made the list in a million years.
It was truly and awfully horrific. The pattern of it made me want to vomit…it was a tie throwback from yesteryear.
The tie remained on my desk as I packed up and went home.
That night, thoughts about that tie kept coming back to my mind…again and again I thought of it. I knew who’d given it to me…it was but obvious from his less-than-guarded inquiries throughout the day.
I had a nagging feeling in the back of my mind that I should wear that tie the next day to school. I brushed this feeling aside, but it kept returning…like an unwelcomed visitor during the holidays.
When I awoke the next morning, I finally decided that I’d wear the tie; however, I didn’t do this willingly. I had to practically force myself to put on my white shirt and black slacks. I felt frustrated because I wanted to wear a pair of khakis and a button-up shirt…this would have been far more comfortable ensemble than wearing my ‘suit’ as my students called it. As I thought of wearing that monstrosity back in my classroom, I felt myself settling into a bad mood. It was an ‘old man’ tie and I hated it…in fact, I even decided to take along another tie ‘just in case’ I didn’t feel that I could stomach wearing that one the entire day.
When I finally arrived at school I put the tie on.
I loathed the thing.
When the bell rang nearly an hour later, my students came into the classroom—and as we went over the language lesson for the morning, Joey’s eyes were riveted to the tie I wore…through my peripheral vision, I could see him staring at the tie intensely. He did this all morning long. Every time I went to help him with something, he’d gaze for a few seconds at the tie with a mesmerized look in his eyes.
I was can’t express how glad I was that I’d decided to wear it.
Fast forward to today…the students left for their holiday break at 12:30. When everyone was gone, I began entering grades and organizing assignments for nearly an hour. As I set something on the shelf behind me, I saw the note from Monday morning.
I opened it.
For those of you who may have difficulty reading the scrawl it says:
Dear Mr. Z,
I’m your silent student ‘Joey,’ I wrote this Journal so you can cry tears of joy. I just wanted to say that you’re the best teacher I have ever had. I like It when you tell jokes. I know you don’t know me veary much but I like you because you make school fun. So that’s what I wrote this so Merry Christmas Mr. Z!!!!!!
On the back it read:
P.S. go on facebook on Christmas and find a video that has a Lego guy on That’s my video.
I sat gazing at this note for quite some time.
Words cannot adequately describe the feeling that washed over me. It was a feeling like watching the first snowfall of the year as the silvery flakes tumble from the heavens; it was the feeling you get when the music rises at the end of the movie, and you realize that everything is going to be okay and everyone is going to live happily ever after; it was the feeling you get when your niece or nephew gives you a hug and tells you that you mean the world to them.
It now rolls on to nearly 6:00 and I still sit in my classroom as the hours trudge onward and the skies outside became dark, I look at that tie again.
This tie is one of my favorites…it’s beautiful and I couldn’t have asked for anything better from my student at Christmastime. You know what? Sometimes the greatest of gifts come in the most unassuming of packaging…
I walked back to my desk on Monday of this week to pick something up, and that’s when I saw the note. It sat there, inconspicuously, like a secret message passed from a friend back from when I was still in school.
I glanced at it and saw the writing on the front, claiming that it was from my ‘silent student’. According to the message, it was to be read only during the Christmas break…not while we were still in school.
I slipped the note onto the shelf behind my desk and there it lay, catching my eye every now and again. However, it was more a mild curiosity than anything else.
It was later that afternoon that package arrived, it silently appeared on my desk as if placed there by Hogwart’s house elves. It lay, unassumingly, wrapped in a sheet of notebook paper. The handwriting—5th grade chicken scratch—was the exact same as on the note which had mysteriously appeared earlier during the day.
The message on this little package was clearly written: OPEN IT.
However, the bell had just rung, indicating that lunch recess had come to an end. So as my class filtered into the room, I set the package aside and began to teach.
The parcel lay on my desk throughout the day, not moving or drawing attention to itself in any way. Near the end of the afternoon, one of my students—I’ll call him Joey—approached me and asked if I’d opened any of my gifts yet. He glanced over to my desk where a few neatly wrapped boxes and bags lay.
I replied that I hadn’t.
He nodded, looked as if he were about to say something, then appeared to change his mind.
He walked away.
Throughout the rest of the day Joey stole glances to my desk, and the package that was wrapped so diametrically unlike than any of the others there.
When he left at the end of the day he wished me a good evening, glanced at the desk one final time, and then ushered himself from the room.
I began to correct assignments, enter scores, and clean up the messes left behind from 29 little people. As I passed my desk, the small haphazardly wrapped gift caught my eye.
Overcome with curiosity, I picked it up. It was light and flexible…whatever was inside wasn’t very heavy.
I carefully pulled away one side of the wrapping, that’s when I saw the tie.
It was ugly—probably something from this boy’s dad’s closet, or one he found at the local thrift store.
I cringed as I looked at the gaudy pattern that—in the gray parts—made it appear to be filthy. You see, I’m very particular of the ties I wear four of the five days of the week, and this one wouldn’t have made the list in a million years.
It was truly and awfully horrific. The pattern of it made me want to vomit…it was a tie throwback from yesteryear.
The tie remained on my desk as I packed up and went home.
That night, thoughts about that tie kept coming back to my mind…again and again I thought of it. I knew who’d given it to me…it was but obvious from his less-than-guarded inquiries throughout the day.
I had a nagging feeling in the back of my mind that I should wear that tie the next day to school. I brushed this feeling aside, but it kept returning…like an unwelcomed visitor during the holidays.
When I awoke the next morning, I finally decided that I’d wear the tie; however, I didn’t do this willingly. I had to practically force myself to put on my white shirt and black slacks. I felt frustrated because I wanted to wear a pair of khakis and a button-up shirt…this would have been far more comfortable ensemble than wearing my ‘suit’ as my students called it. As I thought of wearing that monstrosity back in my classroom, I felt myself settling into a bad mood. It was an ‘old man’ tie and I hated it…in fact, I even decided to take along another tie ‘just in case’ I didn’t feel that I could stomach wearing that one the entire day.
When I finally arrived at school I put the tie on.
I loathed the thing.
When the bell rang nearly an hour later, my students came into the classroom—and as we went over the language lesson for the morning, Joey’s eyes were riveted to the tie I wore…through my peripheral vision, I could see him staring at the tie intensely. He did this all morning long. Every time I went to help him with something, he’d gaze for a few seconds at the tie with a mesmerized look in his eyes.
I was can’t express how glad I was that I’d decided to wear it.
Fast forward to today…the students left for their holiday break at 12:30. When everyone was gone, I began entering grades and organizing assignments for nearly an hour. As I set something on the shelf behind me, I saw the note from Monday morning.
I opened it.
For those of you who may have difficulty reading the scrawl it says:
Dear Mr. Z,
I’m your silent student ‘Joey,’ I wrote this Journal so you can cry tears of joy. I just wanted to say that you’re the best teacher I have ever had. I like It when you tell jokes. I know you don’t know me veary much but I like you because you make school fun. So that’s what I wrote this so Merry Christmas Mr. Z!!!!!!
On the back it read:
P.S. go on facebook on Christmas and find a video that has a Lego guy on That’s my video.
I sat gazing at this note for quite some time.
Words cannot adequately describe the feeling that washed over me. It was a feeling like watching the first snowfall of the year as the silvery flakes tumble from the heavens; it was the feeling you get when the music rises at the end of the movie, and you realize that everything is going to be okay and everyone is going to live happily ever after; it was the feeling you get when your niece or nephew gives you a hug and tells you that you mean the world to them.
It now rolls on to nearly 6:00 and I still sit in my classroom as the hours trudge onward and the skies outside became dark, I look at that tie again.
This tie is one of my favorites…it’s beautiful and I couldn’t have asked for anything better from my student at Christmastime. You know what? Sometimes the greatest of gifts come in the most unassuming of packaging…
Monday, December 12, 2011
The True Meaning of Christmas
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When I looked out my window the other morning, I was greeted with a dusting of snow, glittering like slivers of diamond cuttings...and the world seemed new yet again.
Ah, snow.
You know, it seems that it happens every year...I make a steaming cup of hot chocolate and get comfortable on my Love Sac, each time Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer shows on TV. When I hear the familiar sound of Burl Ives’ voice floating about the house I feel it, it is evidenced in the lights that festoon neighborhood where every tree becomes a light show and every bush is a candelabra draped in purest white.
What is it about this time of year that brings this sudden euphoria and feeling of giving and love? It is because we hear the radio stations jammed with Christmas songs? Is it from the distinct feel of giving around us as evident the newly fallen snow? What is it that makes us all a little more patient and a little more forgiving of each others’ mistakes and shortcomings?
I firmly believe that this sense of joy does not come from presents, it doesn’t come from the snow, or even the music. Yes, each of these may attribute to the real reason, but in essence I believe that Christmas comes from the feeling we feel deep inside our hearts. It is the love of family, the remembrance of those whom have come in - and perhaps out of - our lives but who have made a distinct mark, one that helped to shape us into the individuals which we are - and the type we have yet to become.
I believe that it was Dr. Suess who summed it up best with his character, the old Grinch, who came to a sudden realization that Christmas was much more than the things we buy. In Dr. Suess’ own words:
“It came without ribbons! It came without tags!
“It came without packages, boxes or bags!”
And he puzzled three hours, ‘till his puzzler was sore.
Then the Grinch thought of something he hadn’t before!
“Maybe Christmas,” he thought, “doesn’t come from a store.”
“Maybe Christmas...perhaps...means a little bit more!”
The gifts we give to each other are simple expressions of love we have for those around us, a mirroring of the greatest gift that one gave to each of us, which came on a quiet night when only the shepherds watched. This is the real meaning of Christmas.
May this remembrance remain always in our hearts and minds; helping us to all be a little more patient, a little more caring, and all willing to give a little more love to our fellow man.
I decided to include a little playlist to help you to get into the Christmas spirit - that is if you're not already there - it's also on the sidebar. It starts off pretty mellow, picks up in the middle, and then is mostly just fun, kid-type Christmas songs at the end. I'd have to say that the very last one is a new favorite. If you'd like the code so you could add this playlist to your own site, send me an email and I'll get it to you.
Ah, snow.
You know, it seems that it happens every year...I make a steaming cup of hot chocolate and get comfortable on my Love Sac, each time Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer shows on TV. When I hear the familiar sound of Burl Ives’ voice floating about the house I feel it, it is evidenced in the lights that festoon neighborhood where every tree becomes a light show and every bush is a candelabra draped in purest white.
What is it about this time of year that brings this sudden euphoria and feeling of giving and love? It is because we hear the radio stations jammed with Christmas songs? Is it from the distinct feel of giving around us as evident the newly fallen snow? What is it that makes us all a little more patient and a little more forgiving of each others’ mistakes and shortcomings?
I firmly believe that this sense of joy does not come from presents, it doesn’t come from the snow, or even the music. Yes, each of these may attribute to the real reason, but in essence I believe that Christmas comes from the feeling we feel deep inside our hearts. It is the love of family, the remembrance of those whom have come in - and perhaps out of - our lives but who have made a distinct mark, one that helped to shape us into the individuals which we are - and the type we have yet to become.
I believe that it was Dr. Suess who summed it up best with his character, the old Grinch, who came to a sudden realization that Christmas was much more than the things we buy. In Dr. Suess’ own words:
“It came without ribbons! It came without tags!
“It came without packages, boxes or bags!”
And he puzzled three hours, ‘till his puzzler was sore.
Then the Grinch thought of something he hadn’t before!
“Maybe Christmas,” he thought, “doesn’t come from a store.”
“Maybe Christmas...perhaps...means a little bit more!”
The gifts we give to each other are simple expressions of love we have for those around us, a mirroring of the greatest gift that one gave to each of us, which came on a quiet night when only the shepherds watched. This is the real meaning of Christmas.
May this remembrance remain always in our hearts and minds; helping us to all be a little more patient, a little more caring, and all willing to give a little more love to our fellow man.
I decided to include a little playlist to help you to get into the Christmas spirit - that is if you're not already there - it's also on the sidebar. It starts off pretty mellow, picks up in the middle, and then is mostly just fun, kid-type Christmas songs at the end. I'd have to say that the very last one is a new favorite. If you'd like the code so you could add this playlist to your own site, send me an email and I'll get it to you.
Monday, November 21, 2011
Weekly Kodachrome - River Sunset
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I stood at the edge of the river as the sounds of running water filled my ears with a cadence like no other. The sun glistened off its many-faceted surface and flowed over the sandstone boulders that broke its surface here and there. I raised my camera as the dappled shadows from the clouds overhead littered the landscape like players on a chessboard.
The chilled wind tugged at my jacket, reminding me that autumn is well on its way to be over and winter—as ever—is waiting to take its place.
*Oh, and if you were interested in knowing, this image is actually eleven photos stitched together…just for the record.
Did you take a photo in the past seven days that made you smile? If so, feel free to include it in the linky below.
I stood at the edge of the river as the sounds of running water filled my ears with a cadence like no other. The sun glistened off its many-faceted surface and flowed over the sandstone boulders that broke its surface here and there. I raised my camera as the dappled shadows from the clouds overhead littered the landscape like players on a chessboard.
The chilled wind tugged at my jacket, reminding me that autumn is well on its way to be over and winter—as ever—is waiting to take its place.
*Oh, and if you were interested in knowing, this image is actually eleven photos stitched together…just for the record.
Remember, by adding your photo into the Weekly Kodachrome meme you are agreeing to do one of the following: display the linky or button to your post, or link back to this post so that everyone gets a little more exposure for the image they’ve uploaded. Those who don’t help to ’share the love’ will have their links removed. You can find the code for the linky here.
Labels:
Best-Deep,
Koda,
photography,
Weekly Kodachrome
Monday, October 17, 2011
Weekly Kodachrome - Autumn's Fireworks
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I thought about corn today—hot, buttered corn—fresh on the cob. It practically made my mouth water in anticipation.
Husking—oh, how I love that word.
It also made me think of autumn. That canonical closing of the year when the air grows chill, the days begin to grow shorter, and the trees take on the fireworkian hues of amber and gold displays for days—or even weeks on end —before becoming stark and bare, their skeletal arms then reaching toward ashen skies, and the wintery desolation which awaits in the wings and slowing of life before the winds bring with them the blusterings of white.
…the proverbial closing of the year.
But for now, orange crème pumpkins sit in the fields, waiting to be gathered in before the frost. Gardens are burgeoning with their bounty—zucchini will be left on doorsteps, and piles of leaves anticipate their moments to be raked together and leapt in, children swimming in their sea of multicolored wonder.
“Autumn is where my heart belongs, where it can be tempered by the early snows of winter and bound to the beauty of fallen, dead leaves. The air has a bite and the wind a fierce howl, driving you to the comforts that are so often left by the wayside: the hot cups of coffee, tea, and cider, the warm bowls of oats, and the sublime feeling of being wrapped in a blanket in front of a roaring fire, a book firmly grasped in hand. Yes, this is the season for me, where my soul is content, where I belong.”
Did you take a photo in the past seven days that made you smile? If so, feel free to include it in the linky below.
I thought about corn today—hot, buttered corn—fresh on the cob. It practically made my mouth water in anticipation.
Husking—oh, how I love that word.
It also made me think of autumn. That canonical closing of the year when the air grows chill, the days begin to grow shorter, and the trees take on the fireworkian hues of amber and gold displays for days—or even weeks on end —before becoming stark and bare, their skeletal arms then reaching toward ashen skies, and the wintery desolation which awaits in the wings and slowing of life before the winds bring with them the blusterings of white.
…the proverbial closing of the year.
But for now, orange crème pumpkins sit in the fields, waiting to be gathered in before the frost. Gardens are burgeoning with their bounty—zucchini will be left on doorsteps, and piles of leaves anticipate their moments to be raked together and leapt in, children swimming in their sea of multicolored wonder.
“Autumn is where my heart belongs, where it can be tempered by the early snows of winter and bound to the beauty of fallen, dead leaves. The air has a bite and the wind a fierce howl, driving you to the comforts that are so often left by the wayside: the hot cups of coffee, tea, and cider, the warm bowls of oats, and the sublime feeling of being wrapped in a blanket in front of a roaring fire, a book firmly grasped in hand. Yes, this is the season for me, where my soul is content, where I belong.”
— Unknown
Did you take a photo in the past seven days that made you smile? If so, feel free to include it in the linky below.
Remember, by adding your photo into the Weekly Kodachrome meme you are agreeing to do one of the following: display the linky or button to your post, or link back to this post so that everyone gets a little more exposure for the image they’ve uploaded. Those who don’t help to ’share the love’ will have their links removed. You can find the code for the linky here.
Labels:
Best-Deep,
Koda,
Weekly Kodachrome
Sunday, October 16, 2011
A Slice of the Journey...
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The challenge is pink.
The idea is to share your story.
The story about someone you loved.
For those of you who’ve weathered the past few years here at Adventures & Misadventures of Daily Living, you’ve heard the story…you lived it with me, back when it was a shattering of what was once reality.
To those of you, don’t expect you to relive it all over again.
Whether or not you choose to go any further, thanks for coming here in the first place. Thanks for those of you who were there years ago, and for those who are here still.
Thanks for keeping coming back…for whatever reason.
Post 1: Come What May
Post 2: Laughter
Post 3: Let it Be
Post 4: Diving In
Post 5: 100 Years
Post 6: Hide & Seek
Post 7: Lessons from an Empty Room
Post 8: The Long Fall
Post 9: I Just Wanted to be Sure
Post 10: Tributary
Post 11: Messages to Heaven
Post 12: Echoes
Post 13: November 26, 2009
Post 14: Out of the Ashes, Beauty Will Rise
Post 15: It's Been a Year
Post 16: Two Years, and I Write
The challenge is pink.
The idea is to share your story.
The story about someone you loved.
For those of you who’ve weathered the past few years here at Adventures & Misadventures of Daily Living, you’ve heard the story…you lived it with me, back when it was a shattering of what was once reality.
To those of you, don’t expect you to relive it all over again.
Whether or not you choose to go any further, thanks for coming here in the first place. Thanks for those of you who were there years ago, and for those who are here still.
Thanks for keeping coming back…for whatever reason.
Post 1: Come What May
Post 2: Laughter
Post 3: Let it Be
Post 4: Diving In
Post 5: 100 Years
Post 6: Hide & Seek
Post 7: Lessons from an Empty Room
Post 8: The Long Fall
Post 9: I Just Wanted to be Sure
Post 10: Tributary
Post 11: Messages to Heaven
Post 12: Echoes
Post 13: November 26, 2009
Post 14: Out of the Ashes, Beauty Will Rise
Post 15: It's Been a Year
Post 16: Two Years, and I Write
Labels:
Best-Deep,
challenge,
i heart faces,
photography
Thursday, September 29, 2011
Media of the Week - Holocene
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I watched this for the first time two nights ago, and I was completely blown away with the simplicity and beauty of the editing.
The metaphor was powerful.
The music swept over me like a gentle, swelling wave of autumn wind.
Time and again I’ve tried to pen down the words rippling about me this morning, last night, throughout the day yesterday, but they refuse to be held down and composed together as a string of thought.
The metaphor of my life.
…I knew I was not magnificent.
I watched this for the first time two nights ago, and I was completely blown away with the simplicity and beauty of the editing.
The metaphor was powerful.
The music swept over me like a gentle, swelling wave of autumn wind.
Time and again I’ve tried to pen down the words rippling about me this morning, last night, throughout the day yesterday, but they refuse to be held down and composed together as a string of thought.
The metaphor of my life.
…I knew I was not magnificent.
Labels:
Best-Deep,
Media of the Week
Monday, August 8, 2011
Weekly Kodachrome - The Survivor Wall
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A lone tree stands at the memorial in Oklahoma City—The Survivor Tree—a mighty elm that lived through the blast of the 1995 bombing of the Federal building. At first, people thought the tree was lifeless with shards of debris, glass, as well as other wreckage from the discharge deeply embedded in its hundred year-old trunk.
But still the tree still lived.
It thrived.
It became a monument to which millions have flocked to over the years and have gained strength from.
The inscription nearby reads:
The spirit of this city and this nation will not be defeated; our deeply rooted faith sustains us.
As I worked in my classroom this past weekend in anticipation of the upcoming school year, I found the letters my class wrote as one of their final assignments for the year. They were to write advice to the incoming fifth graders.
I leafed through the letters as I read over their sage advice, gleaned over the span of nine months—gestation enough for rebirth—and smiled at their writing which was sometimes humorous, often serious, and always valuable.
This year I dedicated a portion of my classroom—for a little while—to become ‘The Survivor Wall’ in honor of those students who made it out with their sanity intact—in other words—all of them.
A lone tree stands at the memorial in Oklahoma City—The Survivor Tree—a mighty elm that lived through the blast of the 1995 bombing of the Federal building. At first, people thought the tree was lifeless with shards of debris, glass, as well as other wreckage from the discharge deeply embedded in its hundred year-old trunk.
But still the tree still lived.
It thrived.
It became a monument to which millions have flocked to over the years and have gained strength from.
The inscription nearby reads:
The spirit of this city and this nation will not be defeated; our deeply rooted faith sustains us.
I leafed through the letters as I read over their sage advice, gleaned over the span of nine months—gestation enough for rebirth—and smiled at their writing which was sometimes humorous, often serious, and always valuable.
This year I dedicated a portion of my classroom—for a little while—to become ‘The Survivor Wall’ in honor of those students who made it out with their sanity intact—in other words—all of them.
Did you take a photo in the past seven days that made you smile? Please feel free to include a link to the image in the comments section if you did...or, use the linky below.
Willing to share the Weekly Kodachrome on your own blog? If so, feel free to grab the code here
Labels:
Best-Deep,
Weekly Kodachrome
Thursday, July 28, 2011
Juvenile Detention
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The reverberation and echo of the slamming door behind me was a sickening reminder of where I was; I licked my lips nervously as I stood in that small space between the doors that I christen as ‘the airlock,’ where one door is shut behind you and—once closed—the other is opened.
The second door buzzed, indicating that the locking mechanism had released and we were free to walk into recesses the Slate Canyon Juvenile Detention Center.
My steps were slow as I passed by the small rooms to the sides, the entire front wall made of windows, allowing view to the occupants therein. Some were boys whom I assumed were in processing, detox, or who were awaiting visitation from parents or legal counsel.
A feeling of gloom settled over me as I walked past the glass rotunda-ish master control where the eyes and ears of the detention center watched a plethora of monitors. A veritable montage of buttons and levers were splayed out before the workers as they buzzed people through doors and kept a watchful eye on the detainees of the facility.
I was given a brief tour of the varied facilities at my disposal, and found myself becoming increasingly more and more overwhelmed at the sheer magnitude of the building, and the enclosure I’d only beforewhich seen the exterior of from a distance as I sat in my air conditioned vehicle at the traffic light, listening to a playlist full of music waiting for my chance to proceed through the busy intersection. I’d seen the boys in the compound area, confined behind the high chain-linked fence playing football or walking the exterior lines.
But now it was I viewing the outside from within.
It was vastly different.
I snapped back to the present I was shown the copy room—through two more doors and down a hallway where I was buzzed through at each turn; video cameras gazed down watchfully from the ceiling at regular intervals as an assiduous reminder that big brother was always on the lookout.
I was shown to the classroom where I’d be teaching, and found my heart rate quickening somewhat as I thought of the next four weeks ahead of me.
Why had I agreed to this?
Why was I doing this in the first place?
What in the world was I doing here? I was a fifth grade teacher for heaven’s sake; I was not somebody who should be teaching high school students in lockup.
Each time the boys marched past the wide windows of my classroom I felt sorry for them, wondering what had brought them to this place and moment of time.
I didn’t want to know.
I taught my first three classes without getting knifed, stabbed, wounded, murdered, maimed, decapitated, or anything of the sort.
…until fourth period.
It was the voice that did it.
As the final group of boys trudged into the classroom that first day, I heard a voice I recognized—quite clearly—that said, “Mr. Z?”
Even without looking up I recognized him…he was one of my students.
The years compressed together as my mind careened through the durations to the tousle-haired boy who’d sat in my sixth grade classroom. And, for a brief second, the image of that eleven year-old youth materialized in my head. This young man was one and the same.
He was a bit embarrassed…along with the other four kids who recognized me, but they were also glad to see me as well, all being previous students at schools I’d once taught, though I had never before been their teacher.
I thought of these kids as I taught that day; I thought of the choices they made to bring them to this place in time.
It cut me to the quick.
I am a teacher.
I have been teaching at the juvenile detention center for three weeks now.
Each morning I walk through the double-lock doors and past the guards before entering my classroom, and it is there that I meet my students.
I am their teacher.
These are my kids.
In one more week my stint at the detention center will end, and two weeks later my upcoming 5th graders will arrive in my classroom to commence a new year with me as their teacher; however, I will miss my time in juvenile detention...and I am grateful for the chance to have been able to call myself their teacher.
The image above is not of my student, the shot was garnered from here.
The second door buzzed, indicating that the locking mechanism had released and we were free to walk into recesses the Slate Canyon Juvenile Detention Center.
My steps were slow as I passed by the small rooms to the sides, the entire front wall made of windows, allowing view to the occupants therein. Some were boys whom I assumed were in processing, detox, or who were awaiting visitation from parents or legal counsel.
A feeling of gloom settled over me as I walked past the glass rotunda-ish master control where the eyes and ears of the detention center watched a plethora of monitors. A veritable montage of buttons and levers were splayed out before the workers as they buzzed people through doors and kept a watchful eye on the detainees of the facility.
I was given a brief tour of the varied facilities at my disposal, and found myself becoming increasingly more and more overwhelmed at the sheer magnitude of the building, and the enclosure I’d only beforewhich seen the exterior of from a distance as I sat in my air conditioned vehicle at the traffic light, listening to a playlist full of music waiting for my chance to proceed through the busy intersection. I’d seen the boys in the compound area, confined behind the high chain-linked fence playing football or walking the exterior lines.
But now it was I viewing the outside from within.
It was vastly different.
I snapped back to the present I was shown the copy room—through two more doors and down a hallway where I was buzzed through at each turn; video cameras gazed down watchfully from the ceiling at regular intervals as an assiduous reminder that big brother was always on the lookout.
I was shown to the classroom where I’d be teaching, and found my heart rate quickening somewhat as I thought of the next four weeks ahead of me.
Why had I agreed to this?
Why was I doing this in the first place?
What in the world was I doing here? I was a fifth grade teacher for heaven’s sake; I was not somebody who should be teaching high school students in lockup.
Each time the boys marched past the wide windows of my classroom I felt sorry for them, wondering what had brought them to this place and moment of time.
I didn’t want to know.
I taught my first three classes without getting knifed, stabbed, wounded, murdered, maimed, decapitated, or anything of the sort.
…until fourth period.
It was the voice that did it.
As the final group of boys trudged into the classroom that first day, I heard a voice I recognized—quite clearly—that said, “Mr. Z?”
Even without looking up I recognized him…he was one of my students.
The years compressed together as my mind careened through the durations to the tousle-haired boy who’d sat in my sixth grade classroom. And, for a brief second, the image of that eleven year-old youth materialized in my head. This young man was one and the same.He was a bit embarrassed…along with the other four kids who recognized me, but they were also glad to see me as well, all being previous students at schools I’d once taught, though I had never before been their teacher.
I thought of these kids as I taught that day; I thought of the choices they made to bring them to this place in time.
It cut me to the quick.
I am a teacher.
I have been teaching at the juvenile detention center for three weeks now.
Each morning I walk through the double-lock doors and past the guards before entering my classroom, and it is there that I meet my students.
I am their teacher.
These are my kids.
In one more week my stint at the detention center will end, and two weeks later my upcoming 5th graders will arrive in my classroom to commence a new year with me as their teacher; however, I will miss my time in juvenile detention...and I am grateful for the chance to have been able to call myself their teacher.
The image above is not of my student, the shot was garnered from here.
Saturday, July 16, 2011
Weekly Kodachrome - Rainbows on My Shoulder
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I’m blogging from the kitchen counter.
It seems that my best stuff always comes to me here; call it hallowed ground.
Billy Joel – Bill I’ve heard he wants to go by nowadays…much too advanced in years to be a Billy anymore - is keeping me company as he reminds me of days gone by.
From the open kitchen window, sunlight lances in from the afternoon sun, glittering in the water left behind in the sink from a few dirty dishes. It sparkles in a circular pattern on the ceiling, wavering slightly; around the kitchen, cast from the golf ball-sized crystal upon the sill, dozens of small rainbows cover the walls. I stare at a few of these multicolored strips and remember to going to my friend, Jess’s house, and the crystal his mom had in their living room window casting a thousand baby rainbows around the room. As a young boy I’d try to capture them, wanting to put them into my pocket and save them.
I’d never been successful.
As I type away on my laptop I happened to glance at my shoulder and noticed a multicolored caterpillar of light nuzzled on my shoulder.
I smiled, thinking of the crystals hanging in my room as a boy; the million arcs of color and light they cast day after day through the times of my adolescence and young adulthood.
Billy Joel serenades on…
and the silent fireflies of yesteryear surround me.
Did you take a photo in the past seven days that made you smile? Please feel free to include a link to the image in the comments section if you did.
Or you can use the linky below...
It's new, my friend made it for me
I’m blogging from the kitchen counter.
It seems that my best stuff always comes to me here; call it hallowed ground.
Billy Joel – Bill I’ve heard he wants to go by nowadays…much too advanced in years to be a Billy anymore - is keeping me company as he reminds me of days gone by.
From the open kitchen window, sunlight lances in from the afternoon sun, glittering in the water left behind in the sink from a few dirty dishes. It sparkles in a circular pattern on the ceiling, wavering slightly; around the kitchen, cast from the golf ball-sized crystal upon the sill, dozens of small rainbows cover the walls. I stare at a few of these multicolored strips and remember to going to my friend, Jess’s house, and the crystal his mom had in their living room window casting a thousand baby rainbows around the room. As a young boy I’d try to capture them, wanting to put them into my pocket and save them.
I’d never been successful.
As I type away on my laptop I happened to glance at my shoulder and noticed a multicolored caterpillar of light nuzzled on my shoulder.
I smiled, thinking of the crystals hanging in my room as a boy; the million arcs of color and light they cast day after day through the times of my adolescence and young adulthood.
Billy Joel serenades on…
and the silent fireflies of yesteryear surround me.
Did you take a photo in the past seven days that made you smile? Please feel free to include a link to the image in the comments section if you did.
Or you can use the linky below...
It's new, my friend made it for me
Labels:
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photography,
Weekly Kodachrome
Monday, May 16, 2011
The Passing of a Legend
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“Teachers never die. They live in your memory forever. They were there when you arrived, they were there when you left. Like fixtures. Once in a while they taught you something, but not that often. And, you never really knew them, any more than they knew you. Still, for a while, you believed in them. And, if you were lucky, maybe there was one who believed in you.”
When I was in high school there was a teacher I absolutely loved; her name was Mrs. Frizzell. She was the type of teacher that every student needs to have during the transitionary period of life when their self-worth is in a precarious place, and they find themselves searching – trying to discover who they really are.
This was me.
Mrs. Frizzell was my Drama and English instructor; she was probably the teacher in high school who made the biggest impact on my life – helping to shape me into the person I am today. In fact, it wasn’t all that long ago that I was thinking about Mrs. Frizzell, and I decided that I needed to contact her. I wanted to let her know the influence she’d had on my life, and tell her how she’d helped me to come out of my proverbial shell and spread my wings while I was a student in her classes…
And yet, I hadn’t talked to her in years.
- Kevin Arnold
The Wonder Years
When I was in high school there was a teacher I absolutely loved; her name was Mrs. Frizzell. She was the type of teacher that every student needs to have during the transitionary period of life when their self-worth is in a precarious place, and they find themselves searching – trying to discover who they really are.
This was me.
Mrs. Frizzell was my Drama and English instructor; she was probably the teacher in high school who made the biggest impact on my life – helping to shape me into the person I am today. In fact, it wasn’t all that long ago that I was thinking about Mrs. Frizzell, and I decided that I needed to contact her. I wanted to let her know the influence she’d had on my life, and tell her how she’d helped me to come out of my proverbial shell and spread my wings while I was a student in her classes…
Thursday, February 17, 2011
Reflections of Insecurity
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There are times in my life when people point out my flaws. I know that these imperfections exist. I am conscious that I have them. Believe me, there is nobody in this world that knows better than I do that they exist.
Do I try to be better?
Yes.
Am I perfect?
Far from it.
Yet, when people seem inclined point out my failings and the places where I am deficient in life, I always find myself pondering these non-successes with an intensity that borders on merciless. It isn’t long before I start to berate myself, and I begin to focus on all the other shortcomings that I have—all of those things that others know nothing about, and I add them to the list of reasons why I am a complete failure as a person.
This happened recently.
When I awoke this morning I was so distraught that I didn’t feel like going to work. I found myself sinking into the whirlpool of depression and despair as I thought of all the ways in life I hadn’t succeeded, and those ways in which I’ve been a disappointment.
I laid there in bed staring at the ceiling, hardly mustering up the energy to get ready for the day. I thought about school. I thought about calling in ill. After all, one who felt in such dire straits as myself could hardly be expected to go to work and have the energy and vigor expected of a teacher, could they?
Do I try to be better?
Yes.
Am I perfect?
Far from it.
Yet, when people seem inclined point out my failings and the places where I am deficient in life, I always find myself pondering these non-successes with an intensity that borders on merciless. It isn’t long before I start to berate myself, and I begin to focus on all the other shortcomings that I have—all of those things that others know nothing about, and I add them to the list of reasons why I am a complete failure as a person.
This happened recently.
When I awoke this morning I was so distraught that I didn’t feel like going to work. I found myself sinking into the whirlpool of depression and despair as I thought of all the ways in life I hadn’t succeeded, and those ways in which I’ve been a disappointment.
I laid there in bed staring at the ceiling, hardly mustering up the energy to get ready for the day. I thought about school. I thought about calling in ill. After all, one who felt in such dire straits as myself could hardly be expected to go to work and have the energy and vigor expected of a teacher, could they?
Labels:
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Best-Favorites,
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Tuesday, January 18, 2011
Music of the Heart
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My mind is a tumult of thought this evening. The ideas tumble back and forth in my head like clothes in the dryer, making and breaking static unions as they spin in a haphazard circle without a softener sheet.
Seriously.
I’ve entertained a dozen different postings - all the way from the terribly exciting to the dreadfully melancholy.
However, one thing stood out: The recital.
I was invited to attend a music recital this evening of a past student. He would be playing the guitar, “Rockin’ Around the Christmas Tree” to be precise.
I snatched up my stack of journal entries to finish reading and commenting on as I moved into the building. The cold, biting, night air nipped around the room as I sat down and commenced reading.
Within’ a few minutes, the recital began. It was nearly at once that I found the music played by these children was nothing short of amazing. I felt myself become wrapped in the warm glow of the Christmas music they played, and the feeling one seems to associate with this wonderful holiday. A fire ignited in my chest as the first strains of “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas” filled the room. I found myself drawing in a breath as the feeling of magic wafted about me.
It surrounded me. Enveloped me. Consumed me.
I stopped correcting the entries and just listened and felt the music. When it came time for my student to take his place center stage, I couldn’t help but feel an immense sense of pride.
He sat and played with his teacher on his shiny, new guitar, and it reminded me of a moment in time space, when he asked me about learning to play – over a year ago now – after we’d finished a session of singing time in the classroom where I accompanied my students with the guitar.
I listened to him playing now and I felt a rushing sense that something I’d done along the way had helped him to arrive here at this place. It was the same feeling I’d had when I’d taught someone to become a better reader, when a student had mastered a difficult concept in Math, or when they had simply become a more active participant in their own learning.
Tonight I felt that.
As the recital ended, I recalled this boy’s and my time together when we practiced “Frosty the Snowman” for a literature response when he was just getting his musical wings about him.
It made me smile.
Before I left, I leaned over to this boy and told him how proud I was of him. Of how far he’d come, and how I wanted him to mention me when he was playing with some famous band or in a concert hall. He smiled and said, “Sure, Mr. Z.”
I left the recital and walked out to my car, thinking of another student who I just started teaching on the guitar. As the cold, wintery air blew about me, I smiled.
By the way, I also posted today over at Four Perspectives...just so you know.
First image source: Someplace I can't remember...
Seriously.
I’ve entertained a dozen different postings - all the way from the terribly exciting to the dreadfully melancholy.
However, one thing stood out: The recital.
I was invited to attend a music recital this evening of a past student. He would be playing the guitar, “Rockin’ Around the Christmas Tree” to be precise.
I snatched up my stack of journal entries to finish reading and commenting on as I moved into the building. The cold, biting, night air nipped around the room as I sat down and commenced reading.
Within’ a few minutes, the recital began. It was nearly at once that I found the music played by these children was nothing short of amazing. I felt myself become wrapped in the warm glow of the Christmas music they played, and the feeling one seems to associate with this wonderful holiday. A fire ignited in my chest as the first strains of “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas” filled the room. I found myself drawing in a breath as the feeling of magic wafted about me.
It surrounded me. Enveloped me. Consumed me.
I stopped correcting the entries and just listened and felt the music. When it came time for my student to take his place center stage, I couldn’t help but feel an immense sense of pride.
He sat and played with his teacher on his shiny, new guitar, and it reminded me of a moment in time space, when he asked me about learning to play – over a year ago now – after we’d finished a session of singing time in the classroom where I accompanied my students with the guitar.
Tonight I felt that.
As the recital ended, I recalled this boy’s and my time together when we practiced “Frosty the Snowman” for a literature response when he was just getting his musical wings about him.
It made me smile.
Before I left, I leaned over to this boy and told him how proud I was of him. Of how far he’d come, and how I wanted him to mention me when he was playing with some famous band or in a concert hall. He smiled and said, “Sure, Mr. Z.”
I left the recital and walked out to my car, thinking of another student who I just started teaching on the guitar. As the cold, wintery air blew about me, I smiled.
By the way, I also posted today over at Four Perspectives...just so you know.
First image source: Someplace I can't remember...
Tuesday, January 11, 2011
About Blogging
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A light dusting of snow coved the sidewalk as I left my home yesterday in the early morning light. In the orange cast of the streetlamp outside my home, the snow glistened like the diamond sands of a California beach. I hefted my things into the car, and at once noticed that the tiniest slivers of silver were still drifting from the heavens, like a child sprinkling glitter over a picture covered in Elmer’s glue.
As I started the ignition and shifted into reverse, it made me think of Pink’s song, “Glitter in the Air.”
I drove to work thinking about blogging.
I recalled a response I made to a fellow blogger’s comment. This particular writer answered back, and it wasn’t long before an email was exchanged several times with additions to the message over the course of two or three days.
It felt wondrously strange. In all truth, I’d never met this person before. I’d never seen them (not that I know of anyhow) not on the streets or at the local grocery. It was peculiar in a way – and yet I felt a kinship to this (and many other) people I’d never had the privilege of meeting in the real world, but instead been introduced to through the medium of blogger.
I think of this method of communication and sharing which did not exist five or ten years ago, and I see what a huge impact blogging has made on this massive world. It has made the boundaries a little bit smaller, the borders not quite as distant, and made certain individuals more personal, more real. It’s bridged a gap, allowing you passage into my little world, and a road for me into yours.
In fact, if we were to meet in some distant (or not so distant) future, I’d probably not call you stranger, but instead take you warmly by the hand as a friend I’d not seen for just a little while.
I arrived at work, stepping out of my car as the silvery glitter still drifted and tumbled lightly in the air like cotton on summer wings.
I smiled.
Thanks, Blogger.
By the way, I should probably mention that I posted today over at Four Perspectives.
A light dusting of snow coved the sidewalk as I left my home yesterday in the early morning light. In the orange cast of the streetlamp outside my home, the snow glistened like the diamond sands of a California beach. I hefted my things into the car, and at once noticed that the tiniest slivers of silver were still drifting from the heavens, like a child sprinkling glitter over a picture covered in Elmer’s glue.
As I started the ignition and shifted into reverse, it made me think of Pink’s song, “Glitter in the Air.”
I drove to work thinking about blogging.
I recalled a response I made to a fellow blogger’s comment. This particular writer answered back, and it wasn’t long before an email was exchanged several times with additions to the message over the course of two or three days.
It felt wondrously strange. In all truth, I’d never met this person before. I’d never seen them (not that I know of anyhow) not on the streets or at the local grocery. It was peculiar in a way – and yet I felt a kinship to this (and many other) people I’d never had the privilege of meeting in the real world, but instead been introduced to through the medium of blogger.
I think of this method of communication and sharing which did not exist five or ten years ago, and I see what a huge impact blogging has made on this massive world. It has made the boundaries a little bit smaller, the borders not quite as distant, and made certain individuals more personal, more real. It’s bridged a gap, allowing you passage into my little world, and a road for me into yours.
In fact, if we were to meet in some distant (or not so distant) future, I’d probably not call you stranger, but instead take you warmly by the hand as a friend I’d not seen for just a little while.
I arrived at work, stepping out of my car as the silvery glitter still drifted and tumbled lightly in the air like cotton on summer wings.
I smiled.
Thanks, Blogger.
By the way, I should probably mention that I posted today over at Four Perspectives.
Labels:
Best-Deep,
blogging,
friendship,
happiness,
newness
Monday, January 3, 2011
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I drove across town in a bleary haze. It had been a long day. It always tends to be that the long, hard days are punctuated by fatigue, aren’t they? I felt a sense of deep emptiness as I drove; the few snowflakes falling from the blackened skies caught in the beam of my headlights for just a moment, like little, white moths drawn to a bug zapper.
As I drove, a depression I’d not felt in a while seemed to ebb though the vents and settle over me, a blanketing mist that threatened to take me under. It was a feeling of loneliness, worthlessness, and realization of all of my faults and shortcomings. It was a time of comparing myself to others, and finding that I was coming up short in so many ways.
Why wasn’t I as nice as So-and-So?
How come I wasn’t as talented as What’s-His-Face?
Why wasn’t I as organized as What’s-Her-Bucket?
When was I going to get to that immense to-do list?
Who would even care if I just stopped trying?
The feeling cast its shadow over me as I continued on my journey. Fumbling with my iPod, I found the most depressing song that I could, and proceeded to play again and again. I allowed each and every failure to take center stage in the spotlight of my mind. I allowed the emptiness to swell to mammoth proportions, and let myself feel completely despondent.
The world was a terrible place.
Nothing seemed of value.
I embraced hopelessness as an old friend.
I parked my car and wandered into the local grocery store seeking orange juice. I walked past the deli section, and the counter where I’d bought ice cream so often before. I hadn’t done that in a long time. Grudgingly, I strode up to the counter and paid for a cone. When the woman asked what flavor I wanted, I explained that I wanted her to save it for someone who really looked like they needed it. “Please give it to them,” I instructed, “and tell them that it’s from somebody who hopes they feel better soon.”
The woman smiled – a smile as big as Christmas itself – as I walked away.
I felt the tiniest spark.
I headed to the freezer section and pulled out five or so cylinders of orange juice. While walking to the check stand, one of them slipped from my grasp and rolled across the floor. A woman’s son picked it up and handed it back to me with a smile.
There was a flicker.
The cashier beamed as I paid for my things and wished me a nice day – double bagging my items so that they would be safe.
The flame was smoldering.
I strode out to my car; as I did, I changed the song on my iPod. As the new music poured from the speakers, I drove toward home. A few random snowflakes fell from the evening skies, catching in the glow of my headlights like little, white fireflies floating on the breeze.
The night was still dark, but the blackness wasn’t quite so dense.
The world was still vast, but it wasn’t as empty as it was before.
I still had problems, but they did not feel nearly so hopeless.
You know, I’m convinced that the best remedy for hopelessness is stepping around the obstacle of ourselves – even just a little bit – and opening the door of hope just wide enough so that others can poke their heads in.
As I drove, a depression I’d not felt in a while seemed to ebb though the vents and settle over me, a blanketing mist that threatened to take me under. It was a feeling of loneliness, worthlessness, and realization of all of my faults and shortcomings. It was a time of comparing myself to others, and finding that I was coming up short in so many ways.
Why wasn’t I as nice as So-and-So?
How come I wasn’t as talented as What’s-His-Face?
Why wasn’t I as organized as What’s-Her-Bucket?
When was I going to get to that immense to-do list?
Who would even care if I just stopped trying?
The feeling cast its shadow over me as I continued on my journey. Fumbling with my iPod, I found the most depressing song that I could, and proceeded to play again and again. I allowed each and every failure to take center stage in the spotlight of my mind. I allowed the emptiness to swell to mammoth proportions, and let myself feel completely despondent.
The world was a terrible place.
Nothing seemed of value.
I embraced hopelessness as an old friend.
I parked my car and wandered into the local grocery store seeking orange juice. I walked past the deli section, and the counter where I’d bought ice cream so often before. I hadn’t done that in a long time. Grudgingly, I strode up to the counter and paid for a cone. When the woman asked what flavor I wanted, I explained that I wanted her to save it for someone who really looked like they needed it. “Please give it to them,” I instructed, “and tell them that it’s from somebody who hopes they feel better soon.”
The woman smiled – a smile as big as Christmas itself – as I walked away.
I felt the tiniest spark.
I headed to the freezer section and pulled out five or so cylinders of orange juice. While walking to the check stand, one of them slipped from my grasp and rolled across the floor. A woman’s son picked it up and handed it back to me with a smile.
There was a flicker.
The cashier beamed as I paid for my things and wished me a nice day – double bagging my items so that they would be safe.
The flame was smoldering.
I strode out to my car; as I did, I changed the song on my iPod. As the new music poured from the speakers, I drove toward home. A few random snowflakes fell from the evening skies, catching in the glow of my headlights like little, white fireflies floating on the breeze.
The night was still dark, but the blackness wasn’t quite so dense.
The world was still vast, but it wasn’t as empty as it was before.
I still had problems, but they did not feel nearly so hopeless.
You know, I’m convinced that the best remedy for hopelessness is stepping around the obstacle of ourselves – even just a little bit – and opening the door of hope just wide enough so that others can poke their heads in.
Labels:
Best-Deep,
depression,
failure,
hope
Friday, December 24, 2010
Christmas Eve Ruminations
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I sat on the front porch in the cold night air, as the lights of Tremonton twinkled below me in the valley, like the stars veiled above a layer of cloud. The heavens were silent this evening, no hints of vanilla showers as the lights of the city reflected off of their gray surface.
As I waited in the soft hush, I thought a lot about Christmases of the past. You see, when I was a little boy, Christmas was about presents. It was about having a tree draped with twinkling lights. It was found in the songs jamming the airwaves. It was all about snow, sleigh bells, and reindeer on the rooftop. These were the things that constituted Christmas to me. It was a night besieged with wonder and the thrill of what was yet to come.
As the years have trudged onward, I’ve got older; Christmas has since lost a little bit of the magic it once held for me. Not because Christmas itself has changed – but rather because I have. Something happened in the space of years – something that seems to happen to each of us at one time or another in our lives. It’s a shift from what Christmas used to be, into what it becomes when we find ourselves losing the excitement of the morning sojourns to the tree flocked with presents around its underside.
For some, Christmas becomes a lonely time, besought with empty dreams and seclusion from the rest of the world. It can be an unpleasant reminder of loved ones now gone, and a terrible remembrance that life does indeed go on without them. For those who feel this, I would like to quote Chris Heimerdinger, author of A Return to Christmas who said, “[Christmas is] forever constant, representing hope in the face of despair. Life in the face of death. And light in the face of impenetrable darkness. Every Christmas morning [should] begin with a glorious sunrise. And every Christmas day should be accompanied by a song on the wind [speaking] of things more beautiful than the eye can see and more wonderful than the ear can hear. We may grieve, but Christmas will still come every year. Christmas is still first and foremost a day of healing. A day of embracing everything good and wholesome in this world.”
For others, the focus of Christmas becomes something more than self, more than presents, more than music and snow. Christmas comes to illustrate its true meaning, intertwining with the birth of the Savior in a lowly manger 2,000 years ago. One who would one day sacrifice all that He had in anticipation of reuniting each of us with the Father of Heaven and Earth.
This, my friends, is the true meaning of Christmas.
The Christmas Story - as told by the children of St. Paul's Church. Thanks Vanessa, for originally leading me to this clip...
And let me be the first to wish you all a very Merry Christmas...
As I waited in the soft hush, I thought a lot about Christmases of the past. You see, when I was a little boy, Christmas was about presents. It was about having a tree draped with twinkling lights. It was found in the songs jamming the airwaves. It was all about snow, sleigh bells, and reindeer on the rooftop. These were the things that constituted Christmas to me. It was a night besieged with wonder and the thrill of what was yet to come.
As the years have trudged onward, I’ve got older; Christmas has since lost a little bit of the magic it once held for me. Not because Christmas itself has changed – but rather because I have. Something happened in the space of years – something that seems to happen to each of us at one time or another in our lives. It’s a shift from what Christmas used to be, into what it becomes when we find ourselves losing the excitement of the morning sojourns to the tree flocked with presents around its underside.
For some, Christmas becomes a lonely time, besought with empty dreams and seclusion from the rest of the world. It can be an unpleasant reminder of loved ones now gone, and a terrible remembrance that life does indeed go on without them. For those who feel this, I would like to quote Chris Heimerdinger, author of A Return to Christmas who said, “[Christmas is] forever constant, representing hope in the face of despair. Life in the face of death. And light in the face of impenetrable darkness. Every Christmas morning [should] begin with a glorious sunrise. And every Christmas day should be accompanied by a song on the wind [speaking] of things more beautiful than the eye can see and more wonderful than the ear can hear. We may grieve, but Christmas will still come every year. Christmas is still first and foremost a day of healing. A day of embracing everything good and wholesome in this world.”
For others, the focus of Christmas becomes something more than self, more than presents, more than music and snow. Christmas comes to illustrate its true meaning, intertwining with the birth of the Savior in a lowly manger 2,000 years ago. One who would one day sacrifice all that He had in anticipation of reuniting each of us with the Father of Heaven and Earth.
This, my friends, is the true meaning of Christmas.
The Christmas Story - as told by the children of St. Paul's Church. Thanks Vanessa, for originally leading me to this clip...
And let me be the first to wish you all a very Merry Christmas...
Saturday, November 13, 2010
A Pocketful of Thoughts
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The park behind my house sports a vast array of trees all in the midst of taking off their summerwear. The amber and golden discards lay in puddles, puddles thick enough to wade though up to your shins.
The autumn skies threaten snow, and then part to reveal pale blue.
I feel like the day is undecided.
I turned on the radio on my way to work this week. Two of my favorite stations were already playing the sounds of Christmas, and the mall was beginning to put up the seasonal adornments that make Thanksgiving seem like nothing more than a day off of work.
I reprogrammed the two stations on my radio and have since found two others. I’m not quite ready for winter and Christmas – well, at least not yet. I might steer clear of the mall for another few weeks as well; provided I can quell the temptation of the newest Harry Potter installment.
The zucchini I purchased nearly two weeks ago was thinking of showing the early signs of spoiling. Something needed to be done. I decided to make them into a few loaves of bread that are – even as I am writing this – halfway finished baking. The smell is wonderful and it seems to bring my cold, empty house alive as I listen to a computer full of tunes from my vantage point over the park grounds.
I’ve written about Joni Mitchell before. I’ve written about ‘The Circle Game’ before as well.
As my computer’s playlists shuffled from song to song, I found myself listening to various versions of this one particular, thought-provoking song. I simply cannot pick one version as a favorite; they all have their endearing qualities. They do, however, beckon me to ponder days gone by.
As I cleaned my kitchen, I starting thinking of the lyrics, “The years go by and now the boy is twenty…” I remembered a time when I was singing this song with my old teacher a lifetime ago – back when I was only ten years old. My friends and I would gather around her on the floor in the back of the room with our old songbooks in hand, we’d sing our hearts out as her fingers strummed across the strings of her old guitar.
I loved music time.
Simple reason why I play the guitar with my own class today, isn’t it? Unfortunately we missed music yesterday due to a plethora of other things which needed to be done. I need to not miss that with my students…in fact, a few weeks ago I gave them the choice to either have read aloud or music.
Music won, hands down.
But then again, I’d have voted for it, too.
In writing this post I realize that I haven’t written about any of Joey’s exploits lately, either. Not to say that there haven’t been any…heaven knows I could write volumes, only many of these moments I have chosen to simply enjoy at the time and then forgotten to write down.
But still, I do still have many in my little notebook.
You know what? I have an idea.
It is a brilliantly wonderful idea…to celebrate teaching and Thanksgiving I have decided to have “A Week of Joey.” One whole week of Joey posts. Sure, I might just throw something else into the mix as well, but for the week – one Joey post per day. After all, when he’s not driving me crazy, I find myself smiling. I think I could use the smiles, too.
As I look off into the park I can see an elderly man is now strolling along with his metal detector, looking for treasures buried away in that ocean of leaves.
I hope he finds his sunken ship of riches.
Heaven knows that I’ve found mine...
This version by Tom Rush has embedding disabled.
The park behind my house sports a vast array of trees all in the midst of taking off their summerwear. The amber and golden discards lay in puddles, puddles thick enough to wade though up to your shins.
The autumn skies threaten snow, and then part to reveal pale blue.
I feel like the day is undecided.
I turned on the radio on my way to work this week. Two of my favorite stations were already playing the sounds of Christmas, and the mall was beginning to put up the seasonal adornments that make Thanksgiving seem like nothing more than a day off of work.
I reprogrammed the two stations on my radio and have since found two others. I’m not quite ready for winter and Christmas – well, at least not yet. I might steer clear of the mall for another few weeks as well; provided I can quell the temptation of the newest Harry Potter installment.
The zucchini I purchased nearly two weeks ago was thinking of showing the early signs of spoiling. Something needed to be done. I decided to make them into a few loaves of bread that are – even as I am writing this – halfway finished baking. The smell is wonderful and it seems to bring my cold, empty house alive as I listen to a computer full of tunes from my vantage point over the park grounds.
I’ve written about Joni Mitchell before. I’ve written about ‘The Circle Game’ before as well.
As my computer’s playlists shuffled from song to song, I found myself listening to various versions of this one particular, thought-provoking song. I simply cannot pick one version as a favorite; they all have their endearing qualities. They do, however, beckon me to ponder days gone by.
As I cleaned my kitchen, I starting thinking of the lyrics, “The years go by and now the boy is twenty…” I remembered a time when I was singing this song with my old teacher a lifetime ago – back when I was only ten years old. My friends and I would gather around her on the floor in the back of the room with our old songbooks in hand, we’d sing our hearts out as her fingers strummed across the strings of her old guitar.
I loved music time.
Simple reason why I play the guitar with my own class today, isn’t it? Unfortunately we missed music yesterday due to a plethora of other things which needed to be done. I need to not miss that with my students…in fact, a few weeks ago I gave them the choice to either have read aloud or music.
Music won, hands down.
But then again, I’d have voted for it, too.
In writing this post I realize that I haven’t written about any of Joey’s exploits lately, either. Not to say that there haven’t been any…heaven knows I could write volumes, only many of these moments I have chosen to simply enjoy at the time and then forgotten to write down.
But still, I do still have many in my little notebook.
You know what? I have an idea.
It is a brilliantly wonderful idea…to celebrate teaching and Thanksgiving I have decided to have “A Week of Joey.” One whole week of Joey posts. Sure, I might just throw something else into the mix as well, but for the week – one Joey post per day. After all, when he’s not driving me crazy, I find myself smiling. I think I could use the smiles, too.
As I look off into the park I can see an elderly man is now strolling along with his metal detector, looking for treasures buried away in that ocean of leaves.
I hope he finds his sunken ship of riches.
Heaven knows that I’ve found mine...
This version by Tom Rush has embedding disabled.
Wednesday, September 22, 2010
Autumn Fire
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As I drove home this evening, the gray clouds hung about the eastern mountains like the smoke around mount doom. My eyes traveled up the steep slopes to the fireworkian display gracing the mountainside. Like lava flowing from the volcanic depths, the bushes and trees near the top of the mountain emitted shades of deep maroon, rich amber, and pumpkin orange as they seemed to spread the changing of the seasons one to another, flowing down the mountain in a lava-ish landslide of rich, burnt color.
I felt the fresh air billow about me in shimmering folds as I cranked the stereo, and the strains of Jars of Clay wafted through the early evening air, breathing in the smells which spelled autumn.
Autumn is my favorite time of year. I can’t tell you just how much that I look forward to the onset of Halloween and Thanksgiving. I love fresh pumpkin pie, dressing in costumes, leaves falling in a myriad of rainbow showers, and crisp mornings that invigorate the lungs and mind.
There are times that I wish the season would last a few months instead of being so brief, but unfortunately it is not to be. It just makes me appreciate the time I have all the more.
The tinder has been set, and the tree outside my kitchen window has already begun to spark, the green in one small patch has turned to bright, sunny yellow. This is just a precursor to what is yet to come.
I look forward to the onslaught of autumn, and the entire forest igniting into flames.
As I drove home this evening, the gray clouds hung about the eastern mountains like the smoke around mount doom. My eyes traveled up the steep slopes to the fireworkian display gracing the mountainside. Like lava flowing from the volcanic depths, the bushes and trees near the top of the mountain emitted shades of deep maroon, rich amber, and pumpkin orange as they seemed to spread the changing of the seasons one to another, flowing down the mountain in a lava-ish landslide of rich, burnt color.
I felt the fresh air billow about me in shimmering folds as I cranked the stereo, and the strains of Jars of Clay wafted through the early evening air, breathing in the smells which spelled autumn.
Autumn is my favorite time of year. I can’t tell you just how much that I look forward to the onset of Halloween and Thanksgiving. I love fresh pumpkin pie, dressing in costumes, leaves falling in a myriad of rainbow showers, and crisp mornings that invigorate the lungs and mind.
There are times that I wish the season would last a few months instead of being so brief, but unfortunately it is not to be. It just makes me appreciate the time I have all the more.
The tinder has been set, and the tree outside my kitchen window has already begun to spark, the green in one small patch has turned to bright, sunny yellow. This is just a precursor to what is yet to come.
I look forward to the onslaught of autumn, and the entire forest igniting into flames.
Tuesday, August 17, 2010
Bedtime Stories
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When my friend’s son, Tanner, was about four years old, I started telling him bedtime stories. I don’t remember how this little tradition came to be, it just did. Tanner would burrow down deep into his blankets and watch me with silent, shining eyes; he’d anxiously wait to find out what adventures we’d find ourselves embarking upon, as the shadows in the room danced about us like a kaleidoscope.
There would nearly always be two or three adventures each evening. Sometimes these escapades were spooky, and at other times they were funny. In fact, They included just about everything you could possibly imagine…even a magical bus (yes, shamefully carjacked from Ms. Frizzle) which would take Tanner and his family on the most wonderful adventures where they were attacked by licorice wolves, fell into time vortexes, were offered up as sacrifices to the volcano gods by the pig people, and were even once taken hostage by an old man who lived atop the Mashed-Potato Mountain who planned on turning them all into gravy.
Pure awesomeness.
I looked forward to telling these tales every time I went to visit, because I’d never know what was going to happen next in the story; that was for Tanner to control. Periodically I’d stop and ask, “So, Tanner, what happens next?” It was at this point that Tanner would think for a second, and then add the next twist to the plot, meaning the story might take a completely different turn altogether. We both loved these stories, the stories we wrote together.
It was always a lot of fun.
Over the years on subsequent visits, Tanner just couldn’t seem to wait until bedtime so that I would tell him another trove of endless chronicles; one storyline melding into the other, turning them into one continuous saga spanning over the years all the way back to when he was just four years old.
What can I say? Stories can be captivating.
This year, Tanner turned eleven. It’s now been seven years since that first night I started to tell him bedtime stories; and this past week, I found myself driving up to their house for a weekend visit. Tanner and his brothers were excited that I had come to visit and I went along to watch them at football practice, cheered them on while fishing at the reservoir, took part as we shot rifles out in the desert, motorcycled across the landscape of the Transcontinental Railroad, and sat outside watching the Perseid—meteors blazing across a blackened ocean with fiery trails igniting the nighttime sky.
I won’t lie. This past weekend I started to wonder just what would happen to bedtime stories now with Tanner beginning intermediate school. Like I said before, he’s growing up…and I didn’t know what to expect the first night I was there.
10:45 P.M.
The boys were told to get ready for bed. As they headed downstairs to brush teeth and climb into pajamas, Tanner cried out, “But I still haven’t had bedtime stories yet!”
My heart just about melted.
That night, the downstairs glowed with the power of imagination as we embarked on yet another journey to the far-reaches of outer space—this time joined by Tanner’s little brother, Braden, for the first time.
After nearly thirty minutes of adventures, I bid the boys goodnight and turned off the lights. I stood by the door for a second or two in thought. I wondered just how much longer Tanner would want me to tell him these bedtime stories. Would it be another few months? A year? Three years?
Time would undoubtedly tell.
My mind careened reminiscently over the span of moments thus far. I could only wonder just what fate had in store. It was then that the question I’ve been diligently asking for the past seven years came to mind—and I realized that from this point on, it would be entirely up to Tanner. However, even when the bedtime stories do end—which they undoubtedly one day will—we will continue to write different adventures together and the journey will continue
I now find myself posing the selfsame question: “So, Tanner, what happens next?”
BTW, I am posting over today over at Four Perspectives with An Open Letter.
When my friend’s son, Tanner, was about four years old, I started telling him bedtime stories. I don’t remember how this little tradition came to be, it just did. Tanner would burrow down deep into his blankets and watch me with silent, shining eyes; he’d anxiously wait to find out what adventures we’d find ourselves embarking upon, as the shadows in the room danced about us like a kaleidoscope.
There would nearly always be two or three adventures each evening. Sometimes these escapades were spooky, and at other times they were funny. In fact, They included just about everything you could possibly imagine…even a magical bus (yes, shamefully carjacked from Ms. Frizzle) which would take Tanner and his family on the most wonderful adventures where they were attacked by licorice wolves, fell into time vortexes, were offered up as sacrifices to the volcano gods by the pig people, and were even once taken hostage by an old man who lived atop the Mashed-Potato Mountain who planned on turning them all into gravy.
Pure awesomeness.
I looked forward to telling these tales every time I went to visit, because I’d never know what was going to happen next in the story; that was for Tanner to control. Periodically I’d stop and ask, “So, Tanner, what happens next?” It was at this point that Tanner would think for a second, and then add the next twist to the plot, meaning the story might take a completely different turn altogether. We both loved these stories, the stories we wrote together.
It was always a lot of fun.
Over the years on subsequent visits, Tanner just couldn’t seem to wait until bedtime so that I would tell him another trove of endless chronicles; one storyline melding into the other, turning them into one continuous saga spanning over the years all the way back to when he was just four years old.
What can I say? Stories can be captivating.
This year, Tanner turned eleven. It’s now been seven years since that first night I started to tell him bedtime stories; and this past week, I found myself driving up to their house for a weekend visit. Tanner and his brothers were excited that I had come to visit and I went along to watch them at football practice, cheered them on while fishing at the reservoir, took part as we shot rifles out in the desert, motorcycled across the landscape of the Transcontinental Railroad, and sat outside watching the Perseid—meteors blazing across a blackened ocean with fiery trails igniting the nighttime sky.
I won’t lie. This past weekend I started to wonder just what would happen to bedtime stories now with Tanner beginning intermediate school. Like I said before, he’s growing up…and I didn’t know what to expect the first night I was there.
10:45 P.M.
The boys were told to get ready for bed. As they headed downstairs to brush teeth and climb into pajamas, Tanner cried out, “But I still haven’t had bedtime stories yet!”
My heart just about melted.
That night, the downstairs glowed with the power of imagination as we embarked on yet another journey to the far-reaches of outer space—this time joined by Tanner’s little brother, Braden, for the first time.
After nearly thirty minutes of adventures, I bid the boys goodnight and turned off the lights. I stood by the door for a second or two in thought. I wondered just how much longer Tanner would want me to tell him these bedtime stories. Would it be another few months? A year? Three years?
Time would undoubtedly tell.
My mind careened reminiscently over the span of moments thus far. I could only wonder just what fate had in store. It was then that the question I’ve been diligently asking for the past seven years came to mind—and I realized that from this point on, it would be entirely up to Tanner. However, even when the bedtime stories do end—which they undoubtedly one day will—we will continue to write different adventures together and the journey will continue
I now find myself posing the selfsame question: “So, Tanner, what happens next?”
BTW, I am posting over today over at Four Perspectives with An Open Letter.
Labels:
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boy,
memories,
stories,
traditions
Wednesday, August 4, 2010
I Heed the Call
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The rain falling in cyclonic waves beat against the corrugated tin roofing. It hits the pavement making that popping and sizzling sound—much like when someone is frying bacon. From the twisting cloudy heavens, streaks of lightning illuminate the clouds…like spidery handwriting as the light makes its way to the ground. A second later a screaming boom reverberates, something akin to an exploding velociraptor; the noise fills the skies and empty spaces between the buildings.
The heavy scent of moisture permeates the very air, and fills my lungs with sweetness. I drink it in like warm broth.
The skies are calling…they beckon me to slip out into its downpour.
I heed the call.
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