lilac scented night

Gentle reader, it is May. Have you ever experienced May in Minnesota, or anywhere there are lilacs? Oh, the LILACS! I am a deep lover of the second and third weeks of May for the sake of two things: Lilacs, and crab apple blossom. I grew up in a house with a huge, pink crab apple tree smack in the middle of the front yard. In the spring, I would go out and cut branches heavy with bright pink, fragrant blossoms and put them in glasses in the house. I tucked sprays of it behind my ears. I carried it around with me.

There were lilac bushes outside my high school, and in the last weeks of classes, every room had at least three girls with stolen spikes of purple or white tucked into their hair, their pockets, or their books.

Lilac is not a shy scent. Neither is crab apple. They are heavy and cloying in small rooms, but out there, tonight, in the cool spring rain, they are the scent of heaven.

In his little bed, my boy is sleeping. Today, my first graders performed their play, and it was gorgeous and chaotic and somehow cohesive and coherent. My partner and I across the room from one another, typing at our respective machines, and I am thanking God for lilacs and crab apple trees, for children and strong tea, and for soft rain.

Blessings on your night.

there's got to be a pony in here somewhere

Okay, I started to write you a post about how awful teaching first grade is sometimes, but instead, I am going to give you this:

Because that is way, way better than complaining, which you didn't want to read anyway, right?

Stay tuned for a write-up of our class play!

our new title

When I first started this blog, lo these many years ago, I titled it, "teaching on the edge of time," because Waldorf education is so very forward-thinking and future-oriented, despite carrying with it some vestiges of early-twentieth century educational practice. Later I shortened it to "on the edge of time," which reflected more the urgency and anxiety I was feeling about my parenting and teaching, whether it showed at the time or not.

Our new title, "the clear land," comes from my favorite read-aloud book, The Wind Boy by Ethel Cook Eliot. The Clear Land in this story is the one just above ours, the one where our nobler selves live and play amongst the Clear People, and where everything is a bit simpler, a bit finer, and a bit wilder than here in our land. There are things we humans can do that the Clear People cannot, because we have free will. There are things we can do in the Clear Land that we cannot do here on earth, because there, we live from our hearts.

I wish for all my students, my son, my family, my readers, and myself that we may find that clear land within us where we can climb the air, where we find our true selves, and where we can find one another in a deeper, truer way.
Welcome to the clear land.

Having a Life, and Living a Life

Sometimes, I wonder when, as a parent and a teacher, I get to have a life again. When will I get to go to movies, have coffee with friends, go on dates with my spouse, go dancing, read novels, sing in the church choir, plan a day without considering lesson prep or naptime, be on the computer or watch tv whenever it strikes my fancy, spend hours in bookstores...? When will I live again?

And at other times, I realize what a silly, silly question this is.

As parents, and as teachers, writers, doctors, lawyers, priests, therapists, managers, entrepreneurs, or whatever, we are not here to "have a life," we're here to live one. This one, right here. It's pretty easy to get caught up in the swirl of daily life, and to resort to casting myself as a pawn of fortune, at the mercy of others and of circumstance. When I start wondering when I get to have a life, there are two problems:

1) I am not living my life. I am so busy worrying about what I'm missing out on, what fun is happening without me, that I am missing out on what is actually happening. When we pout and fume about what we're not doing, we also fail to be doing what we are, um, doing.

and 2) I'm casting myself as the victim, not the hero in my story. When I get a role in my own life as the victim, I am totally robbed of my power. The power to create, to love, to work on being human, this is a huge, fantastic, gorgeous gift from God. Self-pity is like saying, "Thanks for the one-of-a-kind pearl tiara made just for me (or whatever other precious, amazing giftie you want to plug in there), but it's not my style." Uh, no.

So, when do I get to have a life? I have a freaking AMAZING life. I am so grateful for it. When they say, "In all things, give thanks," or "Rejoice in the Lord always," or "Cultivate gratitude," it's not some Pollyanna Glad Game BS. When stuff is really awful, it's really awful, but I don't sit around thinking, "Gosh, I just want an hour along in Barnes and Noble." When there's seriously bad stuff going down, I'm too busy trying to breathe, or yelling for help, or dwelling in it and letting myself experience what I'm experiencing, or doing What Must Be Done, to waste time in self-pity.

I'm working in a school that was new to me this year, with another new first grade class, and I am having to work my butt off. But having to work hard? That's a world-rocking gift. My son is 2 1/2. Every morning, he is UP and ready to play before 6:15 am. He is a non-stop teacher of living in the moment, of loving the world, of patience and full-tilt love.

I do an awful lot of grumbling about my lively class, about my loud, stompy, treat-demanding son. I'd love to complain less, to do more, to get up and say, well, I would love to go to a bookstore, I would love to read a novel. And then? Then I can say,
"YES! and let's make it happen."

or

"Nope. This other thing is what I am CHOOSING, for a valid reason, right now."

Choice. Power. Gratitude.

I have a life. I am living my life. And when I'm not, may someone kick my ass right back into shape, so I can get back to the real work I'm here to do.