What gets me through...

On this lovely Black friday, while all others are searching high and low for Christmas presents and fighting for Beatles Rockband, I am lazily resting at home.  It is probably one of the first mornings I've let myself rest in a long time.  

The truth is that I have been pounded with illness this season.  And by season, I mean starting the end of September through today.  Much of this, I know, is due to the fact that I am in my second year of teaching Kindergarten.  Once our class had gotten through the swine flu scare and I thought I would avoid it, (half our class contracted it while the rest was fine) I myself picked it up and was commanded to stay at home till the fever had broken and I was better.

  So, I did just that and honestly, it was like any other flu and though the fever was the worst part.  I survived quite well.  Note: I know this is not the case for all since many with asthma get it pretty bad, but I considered myself lucky.  However, things got worse as some left over congestion from the flu stayed till Halloween and then became a sinus infection.  When I finally got an antibiotic to take care of that and I was finally feeling better, I felt another cold coming on.  This cold has stuck around for more than a week and has moved into my chest and made things ridiculous. 

 

Why do I tell you all my history of being sick?  Well, partially because I am pretty angry at my immune system and my sweet kids who I have dubbed my carrier monkeys.  And,  I just want to complain.  But on thanksgiving I began thinking about what I am thankful for and I realized, if it weren't for my family and my husband, I wouldn't have gotten through. 

When I get sick, I get really emotionally wacked.  Sickness sets me back and slows me down and it is such a problem that I lose all my patience.  Plus, even just a week of health at this point would be better than colds and sinus infections overlapping themselves. 

 

Through all of my ups and downs, my husband has been there to help me.  He has made me dinner, watched movies with me, gone to church and to Savior of the World rehearsals alone while I was sick at home, and he has loved me inspite of my drastic moods.  

I am so grateful for him and his level head when mine is anything but.

My parents and my brother have also been there through everything.  My mom and dad have brought me dinner and visited me when I was sicker than sick and couldn't do anything but blow my nose and whine. My brother has been a great friend and has talked to me and made me laugh. And my mom has also listened endlessly to my complaints and said the one thing all women need to hear when they are upset... "oh, I know!"

I am also so grateful for my in laws.  I have been very blessed in the in-law department.  My husband's family are the type of generous, loving people that show nothing but sweetness and compassion to me, especially when I'm sick.

All in all, I know this won't be the only time I feel sick in my life.  But, I am just grateful for a support system that not all people have.   I'm glad there is a holiday that I can reflect and realize what others do for  me.  

Beauty is...

On one of the my last bike rides of the season, I rode past an elementary school.  Their marquee displayed the Reflections theme for this year.   The theme was "Beauty is..."

At that moment, as I rode past, out of breath, I was thinking to myself that beauty was pain. That is what we always hear right? Whether it is from pinching eyelashes between a small silver torture device, or pouring burning liquids on the skin to remove unwanted hair... beauty has always been pain.  We live in a world that cuts, squeezes, shaves, scrubs, plucks, and scalds to perfect our bodies into what we "think" is beauty.  Sadly I, like many have fallen into the trap that beauty=pain.  I have pulled myself out of bed at all hours to exercise.  I have deprived myself of some of the best foods and agonized over every bite I take.  I have also burned and twisted my hair and applied and re-applied make-up until I felt like I was beautiful. As I rode my bike, and felt the soft and steady pound of my heart, I tried to remember what I was doing was good for me. 

So, is Beauty only seen by the eyes?  Is it only visual?

I've also heard beauty is confidence.  No matter what you look like, if you have confidence others will see you as beautiful.  Could that be true?  I remember hearing a story about Marilyn Monroe (an american icon of beauty) that she could walk into a room and get noticed, not because of her body or smile... but because she could turn her light on and off.  That "light" was essentially confidence.  So, is beauty something inside?

Or, could beauty be talent?  Most people find beauty in what is offered by dancers, singers, artists, writers, and actors.  I have watched in awe as the talents of others have lit up a room or a stage and have left me feeling tempted to compare myself to their light.  

Some also say that true beauty is found in nature.  It is found in the symmetry of flowers or the cold, crisp mountains against a blue sky.  Others find beauty in the rain and the dark storms that haunt late summers.  Or the changing leaves before the November release and all is left bare before winter.

The day I was riding my bike past the elementary school, I was not trying to attain a perfect image of beauty, but to get my body moving after a long day at school.  I wanted to exercise and use my body to accomplish something. God makes beauty and the greatest gift is to see someone or something or (the hardest task) to see yourself as beautiful.  I know that God's idea of beauty is not the world's spidery thin model with black make-up.  But I do know that in nature, we enjoy as much imperfection as perfection and that both were made by God and he sees both as beautiful.  So, why is it so hard to see ourselves as beautiful?  I think I spend too much time judging myself against an impossible scale.  I am who I am and though I may continue to learn how to improve, God sees my best efforts as beautiful and he can teach me to see myself in such a light.

anyone who agrees... check out the movie, Evoultion on www.dove.us  It  is a perfect example of why the world makes it so hard to love ourselves as we are.

"Leaves are most beautiful when they're about to die." -Regina Spektor

The truth is, as much as I love Autumn, I HATE encountering change.  I have never been one for adjusting to things when the world makes a shift under my feet and I have to find my balance again.

The summer of 2009 was going to be my reward for surviving my first year teaching Kindergarten. I was looking forward to it with more enthusiasm than I usually felt for Christmas. But as usual, life changed and I wasn't expecting to feel so bored, or so un-motivated.  I chose to work at an awkward clothing store (to make some extra money and keep busy) that in the end turned out to be a terrible reminder each day that I am far from the bone thin models plastered on every wall.  Instead, I made my summer into a deep challenge to love something I'd always hated.  I learned to hike.  I learned to get used to being out of breath and to have tired legs.  Soon, I bounced back quicker from each hike and I learned to love it.

Now, the change of seasons has passed over my head again and I am a few weeks into a new school year, teaching with a different teacher and a new group of kids.  Like a silly child myself, I miss my kids from last year.  I miss their faces and their comments.  Last year was the hardest year of my life and I never realized that I fell in love with those little ones.  

This year, my class looks different and they act different and I don't appreciate them yet.  Can I do it?  Can I love my kids this year as much as I did last year?

Something my husband said has been making more sense to me.  He quoted Regina Spektor to me and told me "We are always our best selves before a difficult trial..." or in my case before a change hits.  I learned how to love hiking and then, it got too cold to hike.  When I serve at a specific capacity in my church, I tend to get really good before the ground shifts and I am all out of balance again doing something unfamiliar.

My last blog entry demonstrated to me that I knew my kids well.  Now, everything has rewound and I am at the threshold of another year... sick with colds and trying to remember what patience felt like.

Something in me, tells me that the longer a tree grows and the more seasons it survives, the stronger it gets.  So, maybe this year, some of my knowledge will return and I will be stronger than I was last year.  Teaching has drained me of my patience and my health and sometimes my sanity, but in the end, I feel like I am doing something important.  Maybe I am being prepared for the greater work of being a mother.  

Kindergarten Oddities

It has now been almost my first full school year teaching Kindergarten and all I can do these days is concentrate on the week long Spring Break coming ever closer.

I have had some hard jobs and some bad jobs, and this one tops the cake for "amount of patience required."  But this blog is not meant to dig farther into my psyche and decision of taking this job. It is simply a blog of observations.  I have learned a lot teaching six year olds and here are just a few oddities that make this job like no other...

#1-Mini Me

When teaching Kindergarten, you are bound to meet mini, six year old versions of people from all stages of your life.  I have met a little boy who is the six yr. old version of my Music Professor from College. This boy has the same spaced out, yet totally brilliant look in his eyes.  Same resistance to authority.  I've also met a girl who is the six yr. old Regina Spektor.  She has the same girly awkward body and ridiculous need for attention.   I have also met a little boy, who is the six yr. old version of my ex-boyfriend.  He also has the same mischievous smile and stubborn attitude.  I never suspected my teaching to lead me into the past to view what all these people were like at six years old.

#2  Triplicate

All six year olds say things in triplicate.  "Can I get a drink?"  x3  "I lost my black crayon."  x3 "I see a spider!!"  x3  Everything they utter comes out in threes and if you even try to ignore them, triplicate gets doubled and usually the question or phrase is said 6 times.  

#3 Volume

Six year olds have only two volumes, Loud and Mumble.  Some of you may know I still struggle with this one even at my age.  But, I am put to shame by the exuberant, powerful nature all six year olds exclaim stories and comments. It won't matter if I am three yards, three feet, or three inches from them... they demand to be heard.  But, they will still mumble when they lose their train of thought and don't know what to say.  At least I have taught them to swallow their food before asking me any questions during lunchtime.

#4 Colors and Happy Endings

 Six year olds need to have color.  I have tested out lots of books on these kids this year and they crave stories with lots of color.  The pictures need to be bright, the music up-beat, and the endings happy.  Children do NOT develop depressing, emo personalities until they hit that crappy time of life called, puberty.  This became very apparent the day I read, "Alexander and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day" and they complained it was too sad. 

 

#5  Copy Cats

Six year olds ALL copy each other. Plagiarism is a way of life.  Each one is so used to copying the example or the drawing of a parent, teacher, or older sibling... that when you get 20 of them in a room, they all bounce off each other and imprint each other.  One child will complain that so and so is copying their picture of a jelly fish and then, that child will copy  someone else.  It is really how they learn, though I hear the phrase, "She/He is copying me!!!!"  a lot.  I try to teach them that imitation is the sincerest form of flattery, but then they ask me what "flattery" means and I regret my attempt to help.

#6 The Wiggles

Almost every six year old has what we call "the wiggles."  They will uncontrollably have to run or jump or wiggle because sitting in the same place for longer than 45 minutes is beyond their capability.  As teachers we have things called "Wiggle Breaks" where we let them pretend to be an animal, or we do the hokey pokey, or we let them bend and move around.  I started to incorporate yoga poses here and there just to help their flexibility, but nothing beats pretending to be a Lion and crawling around on the floor.

#7 The Forty Year old Phenomenon 

Six year olds come in all ages.  Some are old souls, caught in a tiny body.  They are the children that walk with me at recess and ask me to tell the boys over there to wear their coats or they will catch colds.  Or, they are the children that tell me they know how much I must be looking forward to the weekend.... Like they can read my mind.  

Some six year olds can also come in flirty teenage form, and those are the parents I pity.  Imagine having a teenager ten years earlier than normal.  (shudder)

#8 The Irrelevant

Six year olds have a need to say whatever comes to their minds.... even if it has NOTHING to do with what is being taught or said.  Their need to share is FAR more important than anything else going on and I spend a lot of my days wondering where these little minds really are.  Probably just moving faster than mine.  It makes me feel old. 

#9 Four Senses

The average six year old lacks one of the five senses.  They do not hear.  I am convinced most six year olds are partially deaf.  Listening has to be practiced daily and the teachers can only do so much.  Sometimes this also intertwines with #8... for example, if a child has that need to share the irrelevant, it will usually trump another child who is talking.   

I have also noticed a correlation to the size of the group and the amount of deafness.  Thus, the larger the group, the less they hear. 

#10 Romantic stories are gross

Six year olds hate marriage and kissing.  However, they will use the word "love" always when referring to their parents, families, and teachers.  I have received countless notes saying, "I Love you!"  To them, love has nothing to do with kissing or marriage.   

Teaching has just about killed me this year, but I remember that whatever doesn't kill me, just gives me more to write about.  

My Domestic Affections

About two weeks ago, I went on a very long walk in my new neighborhood. I walked up and down the streets to get some exercise. But instead, I found myself just being fascinated by the homes. You see...I have always loved to see where a person calls "home." I love looking around at the pictures on the walls and the furniture. It is purely for the fact that I like to see how people ease into their surroundings. When I visit a friend, I like to see where he or she sits when we talk on the phone, what their kitchen is like when they make a roast, or what the backyard is like when they have a BBQ on the 4th of July.
I guess it is the writer in me. I like description. I like a setting. I like knowing where someone lives.

Over one summer, my college poetry group had this wild and crazy idea to meet every other week at a group member's house instead of at the school. I loved it. At times, it was more of an insight into the real person than reading their poetry.

Well, that day I went on the walk, I just soaked in the houses, yards, and streets my neighbors and ward members lived on. It was so comforting to me to see these people in their own element. I began to really wonder, what is a home? Dictionary.com defines it as "the place at which one's domestic affections are centered." When I was younger it was my room that demanded my domestic affections.

I had a small, cockatiel in the corner, a keyboard to play, an old, long bed littered in books and a large framed cork board on the wall of all of my favorite pictures, collage style. I painted the walls, two shades of green in college (probably to demonstrate my sadness for leaving New Zealand) and added a guitar to the mix of musical instruments in the corner.
When I moved out and lived with roommate's, I changed everything in my room to dark reds. Color seemed to follow me in phases. But, I still had all the pictures and even the Cockatiel.

Now, I am married and my taste is mingled with another. My home is his. A while ago, when my best friend came over after we were first married, she looked around the apartment and (knowing both of us well) said, "it looks like a perfect blend of you two here. I myself agree... though I miss the Cockatiel.

On a rather jarring note, the day before my walk, my husband and I were driving home after dinner, when we came upon an enormous amount of smoke down the street. Like any morbid, human being... we followed it. And, we came upon a three story home, downtown, that was engulfed in flames. This wasn't like the cartoons with a little flame in each window. This was a ball of flames with the frame of a house swallowed inside. We arrived before the fire engines and I was pretty spooked the rest of the night.

Luckily, no one was hurt, but it makes you think... what would you grab if it was all going up in flames? What matters, what doesn't? What makes a home, a home?

When I moved out with some roommates a few years ago, a close friend gave me a little sewn picture saying, "Home Sweet Home." That hung in the little room I rented for a year. Now it hangs in our tiny little apartment. It reminds me that no matter where I live, it is my job to put down some roots and blossom where I am planted.

Lent 2009

I am not Catholic. But, I do like the idea of sacrificing something for a period of 40 days, ending on Easter. A few years ago, a friend asked me to give up Marshmallows for Lent. To some that is laughable, but to me it was unbearable. Instead that year, I gave up itunes and buying music. The next year (last year) I took the most drastic lunge and gave up sugar. I gave myself some rules and survived by eating sugar free jello puddings. My husband (then boyfriend) did the same and we somehow made it to Easter. It was horrid.

This year, before Lent even came, my husband sat me down and told me NOT to give up sugar again. He smiled and told me to think of the children I teach and to think of their well-being. Kindergarten should never be a place of anger due to a lack of sugar on my part.

So, this year, my Lent challenge is to give up candy. I can have desserts, but since I tend to snack on candy, chocolate, and little gummy things, I decided to take the plunge and sacrifice. This will be hard because everyone knows the best candy comes out at Easter time. Cadbury chocolate eggs, malty ball robin eggs, and of course the ever loving peeps.

But, I have always loved the idea of Lent because it is satisfying to go without something for a while.
Recently I read a wonderful book called Frog and Toad Together by Arnold Lobel. In the chapter, "Cookies" Toad makes a bunch of cookies and brings them over for Frog. They sit and eat together until they realize they are eating too many. Frog decides to help the situation by putting the cookies in a box and then tying them with string and then putting them on the highest shelf so neither Frog nor Toad can eat the cookies. But, Toad points out that each of these safe guards could be undone. Finally, frustrated, Frog does the most wonderful thing. He take takes the cookies off the shelf, unties the string and takes them out of the box and goes outside. He then calls, "Hey birds! Here are cookies!" Birds come from all over and fly away with cookies in their beaks. Toad says the following line, "Now we have no more cookies to eat. Not even one." Frog responds by saying, "Yes, but we have lots and lots of will power." In the end, Toad leaves and says he is going to go home and make a cake. This story really made me laugh.

In my point of view, Lent and fasting (as a Latter Day Saint I try to do this monthly), is a way for us to practice obedience to God and to try sacrificing for a greater good. And maybe that greater good is for me to recognize what an abundance I have. I love Easter and I love recognizing the true glory of the resurrection. And though I am not Catholic, I have family that is and I'm sure they would approve of my sacrifice. Even the greatest sacrifice.... of peeps.

Green to Gold and Gold to Brown

It was Mary Oliver who said in winter "the whole world smells like water in an iron cup." I have never been fond of the extreme seasons. I like a month or so of them, but then I am ready to move on.

Take for instance Winter. The air always seems too thin and it is too quiet with all the birds gone. And also there is Summer.... Everyone loves Summer. I don't. And as far as I know, I am one of the only people who is not a fan of the heated, sweating season. But as much as I hate these extremes, some things have won me over.
In winter, I love the way trees look with no leaves. Their sharp branches crossing against gray and blue. I love winter's dull, eternal blue hour. Everything melts into grayscale.
And in spite of the extra heat and thick air, I love summer nights when the deep breath of the day has been released. I also love walking barefoot over pavement, barely cool from the set sun.

However, lately, I have really been craving color. I'm not sure if all the pink I have been wearing lately has been cutting it. It is this extra need that reminds me it is about time for Spring. In fact, I must have a thing for color, because my two favorite seasons have extreme color in common. Whether it is birth or full bloom before death, Spring and Autumn are full of sweet smelling air, bluer skies, overflowing trees and a huge sigh of relief from the extremes. The hard part is waiting and watching as the sun begins to surface more often and wake up all that are sleeping.

This past fall, Ray LaMontagne released a new album called, Gossip in the Grain. Every one of his albums are separate, distinct and personal. This newest album had a song called "Winter Birds" and it has been a frequent song played on the ipod.

Here is a beautiful moment in the song:

The winter birds have come back again,
Here the sprightly Chickadee
Gone now is the Willow Wren
In passing greet each other as if old, old friends
And to the voiceless trees
It is their own they will lend

The days grow short
As the nights grow long
The kettle sings it's tortured song
As many petalled kiss I place upon her brow,
Oh, my lady, Lady I am loving you now

And though all these things will change,
The memories will remain
As green to gold, and gold to brown
The leaves will fall to feed the ground
And in their falling, make no sound

Here's to the coming Spring and the hope of emerging out of the gray.

My Views on Love-New addition

It was a year ago that I first posted a blog about love. As life is a process of learning,  I feel like posting a simple quote that has extended my understanding.  I read it this year in a book called, The Four Loves, by C.S. Lewis.

"To love at all is to be vulnerable.  Love anything and your heart will certainly be wrung and possibly broken.  If you want to make sure of keeping it intact, you must give your heart to no one, not even to an animal.  Wrap it carefully round with hobbies and little luxuries; avoid all entanglements; lock it up safe in the casket or coffin of your selfishness.  But in that casket- safe, dark, motionless, airless- it will change.  It will not be broken; it will become unbreakable, impenetrable, irredeemable.  The alternative to tragedy, or at least to the risk of tragedy, is damnation.  The only place outside Heaven where you can be perfectly safe from all the dangers and perturbations of love is Hell."

This Year I have named the "Year of Charity."  As we all know, love applies to much more than just a significant other.  We love our families and our friends and yes, even our animals.  I have learned what it means to love my co-workers and to love the children I teach.  And, I have completely been hurt, scratched, bruised and broken.  The list of songs about how love hurts is almost as long as the songs about how great love feels.

 But, I think C.S. Lewis is saying God wants us to have love.  He wants us to experience it and he wants us to go through every aspect of it. He wants us to be vulnerable and sick and ancy and joyful and tearful and prayerful.  He loves us and Charity is His pure love.  He wants us to feel it and give it as he has given it.  But, like all gifts, one party must give and another must receive. I have been guilty of not receiving. But living an open life... one that will receive love, will hurt.  I never realized how vulnerable love makes us, yet the bible says,"perfect love casteth out all fear."  

I decided this year would be the year of Charity when in Sunday school, I read in the Book of Mormon 2nd Nephi 26:30, "All men should have charity, which charity is love.  And except they have charity, they are nothing."  What else is Hell than nothing?  To me, hell would be an empty place...void, and soundless, and cold. 

On this Valentine's Day, I wanted to share my limited understanding of something we are blessed to feel, if we are willing to allow ourselves to be vulnerable... and that is love.  

 

 

One for the Birds

Meet Bundles.  This is my bird.   He is just shy of 20 years old and has single-handedly,  outlasted every other pet I took care of as a kid.  This includes a guinea Pig, a frog, a betta, a labrador, and a tank full of random fish.  This blog is dedicated to him since I believe he is at the root of my bird fascination.

   

Since I was young, I've always loved birds. Bundles became mine when I was 7 and a half.  Our family  had taken care of my aunt's bird who could whistle the Andy Griffith theme song and after my tragic attempt to care for a hamster, I believed a Cockatiel would be the perfect pet.  My parents agreed and sadly, they had no idea what they had gotten themselves into.  Bundles is only in love with me.  He is mean to all others and will only "tolerate" my parents, husband and best friend.  He is happiest with me and his longevity has given everyone a run for their money. 

 

But, Bundles was my best friend when life was at its toughest.  Like all good pets, he could sense my fears, disappointments, and joys.  I used to love watching him stretch his long gray wings and dip his face into his water bowl for a drink.  However fun it was watching Bundles wipe extra water from his face, I loved watching him sleep.   When birds are truly sleeping, they are found on one foot, with their head turned back and tucked beneath a wing.  Once, I sat on my bed, drawing and he fell asleep on my knee.  Standing on one foot and fluffed up like a gray dollop of meringue, I watched Bundles breathe slowly and I fell even more in love with birds.

I love their wings and eager, dark eyes.  Everything about their sleek feathered bodies and dinosaur feet fascinates me. As a teenager, I had a picture of a Barn Owl on my wall and I would pester my Dad to tell me about his pet owl Oliver he cared for as a boy.  I loved the Tracy Aviary and soon fell in love with the Bird Refuge. 

Bird songs have been so comforting to me while also making me homesick for New Zealand.  In Hamilton, I remember waking up to the billions of birds singing outside my window and feeling the heaviness of winter lift from my shoulders.  Heck, one of my favorite singers is Andrew Bird and he must have a like fascination.  He whistles in his music, accompanying himself with a tender violin, and often his melodies remind me of bird songs.  (Ethiobirds is his best work)

But, down deep somewhere, I'm really jealous of any animal that is capable of flying.  Light as hollow glass, birds can slide through air and land in the tops of narrow branches we "earth-bound" would shudder to step foot on.  It must be such a feeling to soar so high and so far.  Maybe that is why I always loved singing.  It was the closest I could ever come to flying.  

 

I have fallen in love recently.  John and I have begun to collect a little gathering of fish at our house and have become frequent Petco shoppers.  About a month ago, while getting fish food, I met a little bird named Sherburt.  He is a White Bellied Caique with a ridiculous price tag (thanks to Petco).  I've visited with him often lately.  He rolls on his back, sticks his feathered talons in the air and acts like a true ham.  

With the "No Pet" rules established at our apartment, I really miss Bundles these days. But he is safely nestled in with my parents instead of being in the corner of my room, squawking at me to let him curl up on my pillow.  I still remember in New Zealand, when I missed Bundles, I would go down to the local park where there was a huge cage, 8 feet high, and full of Cockatiels.  It still seems impossible to write about, but I feel like that crazy, moody, little bird was a little gift from God to me.  

A Change is Gonna Come

This morning, I really didn't want to be at school.  It was too cold.  It has been too cold to wear skirts since mid-October, but I wear them everyday regardless.  I was not looking forward to going into my classroom today and teaching our kids again to spell and number their clocks with the 12 at the top instead of the 1.  I didn't want to focus on keeping them busy, learning new cursive letters or writing two or three sentences over and over again.  I didn't want to do it all again.

But as the sun poured over the mountains, my attention was drawn up to the top of a boney tree on our playground.  In the highest branches sat one bird. Then three or four more arrived. Their little voices flew high and I felt sorry for how cold they must be.  My mind started turning like it used to with ideas and images for poems I have never written.

I used to spend night after night writing poetry.  I used to fill notebooks with ideas and get up early to meet classmates at 7:00am on campus.  We would read and edit and write poetry. Then, we all graduated and moved away.  Some moved far away and studied more poetry and some started families.  

Here I was, in the middle of this playground in 20 degree weather, missing my old self.  

It hit me hard today that I am still mourning a loss.  I never got accepted to Grad school and life changed on me.  I got  married and went from teaching imagist poetry to asking six year olds what shapes they see in the American flag.

Please, do not read wrong.....  I am happier being married than I have ever been.  But, I miss some of the old parts of me that are still here.  I still want to write.  My life will always change, but no one can change that I am a writer.  I see things like a writer and I feel things like a writer.  I may not be an excellent writer, but I need to write.

This job has wrung me out with both hands.  Physically, I have never been as sick with colds or as sore in my back and legs as I have this first year teaching.  Dealing with some students and understanding their needs for attention, has just about killed me at times.  But there is one thing I will always love.  I love reading to my kids.  I love watching them sit below me, with their legs crossed and their eyes wide when I show them the pictures on each page.  I love making voices as I read and I love making them laugh.  

I have recently been introduced to a new series of books called the Mr. Putter and Tabby Stories by Cynthia Rylant.  I love them.  They are perfect for Kindergartners.  The other day I read Mr. Putter and Tabby Write the Book.  Without giving too much away, this one was about how Mr. Putter (an old man) decided to write a mystery book and ended up spending more time cooking his snack to eat while writing than actually writing.  In the end, he takes a piece of paper and writes the title, "Good Things."  Then he lists all the good things in his life and reads it as a poem to his neighbor Mrs. Teaberry.  She tells him not to feel bad that he never finished the mystery story because not enough people write about the Good Things in this life.

This was a good book.  It was a gentle reminder to me that any writing I do, is good enough.  I may not have made it into the highly competitive MFA programs I applied to all over the country.  I may not ever get more than my Bachelors.  But, I can always read and write about what matters to me... and best of all, I am learning how important it really is to read to my own kids.

So, no blog this inspiring should go without a resolution, right?  Once a person gets married, they tend to start a family blog to keep friends updated on their ever-changing lives.  John and I will eventually do this.  Probably much sooner than later.  But it won't be here in the refuge.  He has already reminded me, this blog is for me and me only.  I plan on making a resolution from here on to write a little weekly.  Even if it is something small.... I need to write.  Things here may not be finished or perfect, but they will be from me.    And in the refuge... always feel free to read the little bits here.  They will be genuine and everyone is welcome.