Lest we forget what?

On our sleepy little island, Remembrance Day was observed in different ways. Groups gathered around radios to listen to the CBC, met at various memorial spots on the island, or, like me, congregated at the store for two minutes of silence, the playing of taps, and a cup of coffee. As the 11th hour approached, little boys chased each other around the parking lot while the adults stood in the sun and talked quietly about how high the lake is this year and whose apples are storing well. We moved into the market, and made our way past the deli counter to the tables where people gather daily for chats, meetings, and food. As I stood between the garden gloves and the magazine rack, I looked around at the dozen or so people and wondered about their war stories. This being Canada, the stories could have been from any number of countries.

Mine is from Germany and it is the story that I have shared with many students over the years during discussions of Remembrance Day.  I edit out the horrors of my grandmother's experience and focus on her children.

My father and his siblings lived in a boxcar and stole potatoes from the fields in order to survive after the Russian army threw them out of their home to use it as housing quarters. My grandfather had been conscripted, captured, and left to worry from his POW camp for the family he was not allowed to contact. 

I am very selective about what I tell students, but I want them to understand that we are talking about real people, to understand that peace is a gift which people in many parts of the world have had ripped away. I want them to take in the difficult concept that elsewhere in this world, people are born, live a lifetime, and die without ever knowing peace.

For me, Remembrance Day is a day of mourning for all the loss the world has suffered because we as a species have not evolved past war. It is also my annual marker to check and make sure that I have not forgotten and that I am doing my part to educate the next generation. A few days ago, the world marked the 25th anniversary of the fall of the Berlin wall. Many people watched the celebrations from either side of the West Bank Wall. Those who forget history are doomed to repeat it.

When I was a young adult, I learned about the internment of thousands of Japanese Canadians from the west coast. A young adult! How had I managed to get through an entire Canadian public education without knowing about our shameful past?

Teaching my students about the internment was my first real encounter with the story. I chose to teach A Child in Prison Camp by Shizuye Takashima and wondered why this was not a required component of study in Canadian History.

Here on Cortes, three Japanese Canadian families are mentioned in the local archives of the early years, although only one, the Nakatsuis, were living here at the time of the internment. In her book, Destination Cortez Island, A sailor's life along the BC coast (1999), June Cameron described "Jap ranch," as it was known, as a well-kept property. She called it, "aesthetically pleasing as well as tidy and purposeful" (p.200). June also had this to say about the Nakatsui family (she used a different spelling of the name than my research supplied):

As neighbours, they were courteous and well-liked, but after Pearl Harbour and the alleged sightings of submarines off the B.C. coast, even before the declaration of war, the locals became understandably nervous. The Nakasuis were evacuated to internment camps along with all Japanese people living on the coast, and the fruit from their orchard was left to rot. When we went by in the fall to pick some apples to take back to the city with us, we found their home stripped of belongings. Unwanted objects littered the ground. It made me ashamed to be a Canadian." (p. 199)

I told my Cortes Island students about the internment in general and we discussed it at length. But it remained a story from "out there." Not quite an abstract idea, but one they couldn't quite connect to. So, I led them out to the display board in the hallway where a picture of the island's first school bus was proudly displayed.

That truck, one of few on the island at the time, was also the vehicle used to transport the Nakatsui family from their home. As the children stared at the picture, I told them about our Japanese Canadian internment--and theory became reality.

Over the years, the elephants in the living room of our collective past have slowly begun to trumpet and I stand amazed and humbled by the stories from my First Nations neighbours, my Japanese Canadian neighbours, my Chinese Canadian neighbours . . . and on it goes.

Shame and guilt are useless, energy-draining emotions; knowledge is power. I want the next generation to be equipped with knowledge. And so . . .

In the summer of 2015, Salmonberry Publishing and I will be launching a middle-grades novel called Full Moon Lagoon.  I am very proud of this book. The story is an action-packed adventure set here on Cortes. It is my hope that the children for whom it was written will have a fun read, close the book and turn to an adult to ask, "Did the government really make all the Japanese Canadians move like that?"

Yes, they did.

And we must never forget.

Introducing . . . Cortes Art Space

Okay, you know how last time I said I was blogging when I should have been working on baseboards for the apartment? Well, the baseboards are done and so is the website for our new art space. (Patience, first I must pontificate sufficiently.)
Shanny and I have a home with two apartments in it. Since 2005, when we bought our home, we have endeavoured to provide a home for someone else here on our little island. We have made some wonderful friends this way, but in recent years with our local economy not recovering from the recession as it has elsewhere, we have had more broken leases than honoured ones. There just isn't any work here.
So, we decided that this must be a sign. If the most practical application of the space isn't working out for either party, why be practical?
As you know, I have used house-sitting as my way of getting writing retreats on the cheap. And that works for me, but the chances of landing in a really creative environment are not high.
We live in a very inspiring place, which begs the question; why do I need to leave paradise and find retreats? Short answer: the responsibilities and routines of daily life are the pieces of furniture blockading the door to my metaphoric room of creativity. (Nice, ya? Just thought of it.)
I'll still need to get off the island to find solitude, but the rest of the world should come here! (One at a time please. Line-up in an orderly fashion - you're in Canada, now.)
We live at a lake with a beautiful sandy beach. The ocean is a ten minute walk away. You can walk different beaches every day.
The apartment is now equipped with an easel, worktable, desk, yoga equipment, small but deadly fiction library and of course, a very comfortable living space, recently beautified by the art work of our dear friend, David Ellingsen. (Okay, go check him out, but then come back. I'm not done and you haven't seen the apartment yet.) http://www.davidellingsen.com/
Did you check out "Obsolete Delete"? No? Go back. It's under Environmenal 1.
See? When I grow up, I'm gonna own that whole collection.
Okay, back to the apartment. It's lovely and it looks out over the lake and has its own yard and deck and if anyone is really needing a doggy-snuggle, we'll let you borrow Jedidiah Wiggle-bottom Happy-feet Puddle-jumper Jonassen. You can call him Jed. (Springer/Golden with a very big heart).
Point is, we have a great place and we want to share it with artists. Seriously, if you can't get inspired on Cortes Island, you're just not trying.
Alright, you have been most patient and you may go look at the website now, and consider this your official invitation. Come and write or paint or think about painting or write about thinking or . . .
http://www.cortesartspace.com/

p.s. Jed is really into yoga.

Swirling Head Syndrome

I am suffering from Swirling Head Syndrome. (That's not real but guess what is? . . . S.P.L.A.T. the society for the prevention of little amphibian tragedies. I kid you not.)
See what I mean? I have no focus. I am thinking about 20 things at once most of the time. I'm pretty good at multitasking (most teachers are) but what I am experiencing is something more like my brain being shot by a ray gun that disrupts synopsis and causes constant interruptions to . . .
What was I saying?
The source of the current problem is partly hormonal ( I believe we covered that earlier in Writer's Blah, June). 
However, it's been stepped up significantly with my arrival at the intersection of Necessity and Dreams. The road which led me here was paved with things like a long and discouraging teacher's strike which has left me broke and quite disillusioned about the future of public education in this province and country. On the other hand, possibilities have also arrived on the horizon, some with more appeal than others. Some with more potential than others.
So here I am, redecorating the apartment to create a space for artists and writers to work and live. (I'm supposed to be working on the baseboards right now!)
I'm also writing - not nearly as much as I should be or want to be - but I have my usual 2 or 3 projects on the go. I'm tutoring and working as a TTOC at the school. I'm revisiting the idea of facilitating workshops for teachers and educational assistants. I'm starting an Artists in the Schools program with a talented visual artist so we can offer mixed-media theme studies for students. I'm starting the process of publishing my middle-grades novel, and entertaining the possibility of joining a publishing cooperative as a project manager. I'm supporting a friend who is running for local office and I haven't finished my Halloween costume.
And then, of course, there's everyday life with the usual demands we all face, including weekly therapy sessions with a partner thrown into a spiral of depression by the dismal performance of the Saskatchewan Roughriders.
The challenge here is that, at present, none of these things generate any income except tutoring and subbing, and our little school is not generating much of the latter right now.
So here I am at the intersection of Necessity and Dreams and I'm getting a neck spasm from looking one way, and then the other.
This is a busy corner. There are lots of us milling about, muttering to ourselves about building a house right here where these two roads meet. Can following your dreams pay your bills?
Ah, the eternal question.


Monica is the author of "Thanks for chucking that at the wall instead of me."

Noticing

When I first moved to Cortes Island, I promised myself I’d never stop noticing the wonders of this place: being able to walk by the ocean every day, seeing seals and eagles. Walking to the lagoon to dig clams and pick oysters. And I moved from Winnipeg so I didn’t want to stop noticing being able to breathe in winter without a wool scarf. In fact, I keep an empty corner in the storage room where my boots, parka, mits, toques, jumper cables, antifreeze, snow shovel and mosquito repellent should be stored. I love that empty corner. I notice that corner.

          I also didn’t want to stop noticing the changes to my lifestyle. What was once a 30 minute drive to work with a cardboard cup of coffee, has become a five minute walk up the hill with a mason jar of Roibos tea. I used to swim in chlorine for an hour – 40 laps  –  then spend an hour getting the chlorine out of my pores, my hair, my swimsuit. Now I swim an hour in a lake with water so clean I can drink it. Just one lap – around the island and home again. No products necessary. No swimsuit necessary.

          But you know, noticing takes some effort. Daily life is what it is and eventually things begin to slide under the radar undetected.  Sometimes I worry that I might be losing my perspective. Let me give you an example.

          A while back, my friend Patty and I decided to go to a dance at the Gorge hall on the other side of the island. She called up her buddy Tom to ask if she could borrow the car he’s always talking about but never actually driving anywhere.

          Sure, he said. It’ll be in the parking lot of the Tak – it’s green. Help yourself.

          On Saturday, I met Patty at the Tak and she led me to a green Ford of undetermined age, whose keys dangled merrily from the ignition. We struck out and were over half way to the Gorge when we came across Jake and Silent Bill hitch hiking.

         Need a lift to the dance?

Yup. Who’s car? Jake asked.

Tom’s.

You sure?

Patty and I looked at each other. You sure? I asked her.

Jake’s head was out the window, scrutinizing the outside of the vehicle. This car looks a lot like Valerie’s, he said. Silent Bill nodded vigorously.

Who?

You know Val, who works at the Tak.

Patty reached across me and rifled through the glove box until she came up with a registration.

Oops, she said. We took the wrong car. She sucked the inside of her cheek for a moment. Well, the closest phone is at the Gorge. She put Val’s car into gear and pulled back onto the road.

At the hall, I wandered off while Patty called the Tak on the payphone. When she rejoined me, I asked what happened.

We have to put it back where we found it. By tomorrow morning.

Sounds good, I said, spilling a bit of roibois tea from my mason jar onto the dance floor as my knees were clipped by a naked toddler chasing a dog.

Do you notice anything weird about all this? I asked Patty.

Na, she said. That’s how it always smells. It’s patchouli.

Resident or Transient?

With the engine cut, our world changes.

We are drawn outward, suddenly part of the grey ocean that surrounds us. Now it is waves, waves we hear, gently slapping, tapping at the boat’s belly. 

Fog subdues sound, reducing it to finite pebbles. Gull. Distant ship’s whistle. Tap, slap.

There is little to see. In all directions; sky, water, and fog in three shades of grey. We watch each other for signs of sound. Eyes widen; heads turn.

A soft blow.

“There.” At the end of my finger and fifty feet out, a dorsal fin. Then another, smaller.

Two more little explosions of air, like gods blowing kisses of deepest affection to one other.

Starboard now. Another two – just fins – then seconds later in the same spot, a small black island surfaces and recedes in one smooth undulation. Beyond this, just before the fog curtain, another three fins.

The soft sprays surround us. Backs and fins dot our sacred seascape and tears blur this vision. A cow and calf come so close my breath catches. I lick salty fog from my lips. We are surrounded and in this moment, I am perfect and fluid and I long to go, to glide, to blow, to know what my pod knows.

But we are left behind, bobbing, going nowhere and the magical beasts take the dream with them, weaving silk strings in their wake.

Then the sun cracks through the fog and in its brief touch I see the threads glisten. I see the pattern. I see the web.

I purse my lips and force them open with a lungful of air. On the sound of my blow, the messengers return to me, surging forward effortlessly through the grey sea, through my red blood toward my racing heart.

Okay

Click here to read my new piece published by Rose Red Review. . .

Happy Aboriginal Day

We celebrated early here on Cortes Island, and what a beautiful day it was: a clear sunny sky with a light breeze so the eagles could play above as we played below.
I spent our Aboriginal Day at the Klahoose Village where the children of the island were invited again this year for what I hope is becoming an annual tradition. We were treated to stories, songs, and prayers - offered in the traditional language and interpreted for the benefit of the non-Aboriginal guests.
Traditional skills were shared and the children were happily engaged in one or more activities. We did beading and cedar weaving. We made medicine bags and dreamcatchers. We made bannock and "Indian Tacos". We ate an amazing meal, including traditionally prepared salmon, all generously supplied by our hosts.

There were many lovely moments in this day, and one I will treasure was a private moment in the woods gathering a bit of cedar to put in my new medicine bag. I was thinking about the medicine bag hanging in my car, faded now after eleven years. It was a gift from an Ojibway neighbour in Winnipeg who gave it to us as we started our long drive across the country - to keep us safe. Lost in my thoughts, I startled a deer and listened as it thumped off into the trees toward the shore. It is easy to imagine this island in the days before contact. I watched the sunlight bounce off the water and for a second, I could almost see the great canoes.
As I sit here and look at the Circle of Courage above my desk, I am reminded that Generosity is one of the most basic and important virtues we nurture in our children. Our First Nations neighbours did it beautifully today. The children enjoyed and appreciated the bounty of the day.
These little ones will grow and learn more about the history of their hosts. Some of that will be hard to hear. And then, they will remember days like this one and realize the true depth of  generosity we all witnessed today.
The sun sets with a hopeful glow over Cortes tonight.

Monica is the author of "Thanks for chucking that at the wall instead of me."

Salmonberry Arts

Visiting a great new website as a guest blogger today. Why don't you come with me?
http://salmonberry.ca/transcend/

I don't get it . . .

As a teacher in British Columbia, perhaps my voice should be dismissed with the din of rhetoric floating in the off-shore breeze these days. I am a teacher-on-call in a small school on a remote island. I think my perspective on the current labour dispute between the BCTF and the provincial government is a little different; not just for the aforementioned reasons but also, and perhaps mostly, because I am about as uninformed and – dare I say it – uninterested in the politics of education as a teacher can be.

I know – shocking, right? I am appalled at myself and I do hereby resolve to pay more attention and be informed and maybe even involved. Well, informed, anyway. Baby steps.

I have been a teacher in BC on and off for the past decade and teaching has taken a backseat to other pursuits in that time. (Again, not an excuse for my apathy, just FYI . . .)

Previous to that, I taught in Manitoba where I was more fully engaged. I do believe I was even the union rep for my little school one year.

In a decade here, I have witnessed three rounds of job action. In over fifteen years in Manitoba, none. I have clear memories of working with people from the Manitoba Department of Education on a couple of different projects.  When I look back at this, I notice that at the time it seemed perfectly normal to me that those ultimately responsible for the education of children in the province would be the first to roll up their sleeves when there was an opportunity to improve the system. Imagine my surprise to arrive on the coast and discover the long-standing wall of animosity between the two bodies of people responsible for educating the children and youth of BC.

Here’s how BC public education looks to a periphery-dweller like me: Teachers are the people hired to deliver the program carefully designed and honed by the department whose sole responsibility is to ensure the quality education of our children. Right? Well, isn’t that enough to worry about? To deliver the program? To deliver the program in how ever many languages the kids in your class speak and to deliver it to touch on as many different learning styles as possible to accommodate all the different types of learners in your group. To adjust each unit to varying speeds, ability levels, and in the case of our little school here, to deliver curriculum to 3, 4, or even 5 different grades in the same classroom. To connect with each and every child and ensure they feel safe and cared for, that they experience success, that they feel challenged but supported. To connect with every family and make sure you understand the children so that every need is met. That seems like enough to me. For a more detailed picture of the daily life of a public school teacher, listen to this: https://soundcloud.com/cknwnewstalk980/charmaine-shortts-letter

So riddle me this: How have those hired to deliver this program turned into the group responsible for defending the rights of children against those whose very mandate IS the well-being of the children? Why on earth am I standing on a picket line trying to get the government to be reasonable about supporting children when I should be figuring out the most creative and effective way possible to deliver THEIR education program to OUR children?

What happened in this province to create a system in which the teachers must defend the education rights of the child against the agency created for the education of the child?

            I don’t get it.

Monica is the author of "Thanks for chucking that at the wall instead of me."

Writer's Blah

Having a never-ending supply of opinions, it is a rare thing for me to run out of words. But, it has happened at last. For the past month or so, I have written next to nothing and it's not so much Writer's Block as it is Writer's Blah.
I have been roaming blindly through the land of Perimenopause this past year and things are not improving. While I acknowledge that half the population deals with this particular challenge, I have to say, some women are better equipped to handle this than others.
First of all, I have never given birth, so apart from the usual monthly visit from . . .  (insert family euphemism here), I have no experience with serious hormone fluctuations. And, having had a regular and reasonable cycle, I was not prepared for this new world. I have been blind-sided by a set of symptoms I am ill-equipped to handle.
Earlier this week, in a one-sided conversation with the dog (not a symptom), I heard myself use the word, "jealousness". I kid you not. And when I heard myself say it, I knew immediately it was wrong, but was unable to come up with "jealousy" for several seconds. First it was funny, then disconcerting, then terrifying. Thankfully, the dog had the sense not to laugh because the instant anger thing is also pretty upsetting. (Just ask the unwitting - and unhelpful - Canadian Tire employee I snapped at last week. I'm pretty sure he had it coming, but what the heck? Where is all this rage coming from?)
Two days ago, I started to climb into a hammock for a test drive . . . and one end of it was being held up by my partner!
Today, I tried to get a plumber to write me a receipt he never gave me that, of course, he did give me and here it is in the file where I put it. In the Rock-Paper-Scissors game of life, Hormones beat Brain Cells every time!
I cry about 4 times a day, I'm tired all the time and my mood swings go from euphoric to despondent. Swing time ranges from days to minutes. I'm serious - minutes!
I went to my doctor and told her I wanted to rule out brain tumour or borderline personality disorder and make sure this was all just hormones. I told her I wanted to make sure it wasn't something "real" because I felt somewhat debilitated. She listened to me downplay it and when it was her turn to talk, she started with this: "Well, women have killed themselves, and others." So I smartened up and listened. I now take 634 vitamins per day.
I was told at a writing workshop to "take everything to the page" but there have been a lot of days when I could barely take it to the kettle to make my morning coffee. I'm doing the best that I can and I am greatly encouraged to be sitting here typing right now.
If anyone else is being slapped around by perimenopause, I leave you with this hope: while the average span of perimenopause is 3-4 years, it can last as long as a decade.
Hey, Stupid Guy at Canadian Tire . . . watch your back!

What if . . .

Yesterday, I visited a friend's grade 2,3,4 French immersion classroom as a guest author. I arrived to find a  wall covered with drawings of  "Monica, l'auteur." It was pretty inspirational and the wall has moved from their classroom to my office.
There I am in a rainbow-coloured floor-length gown. While I have not worn a dress since the mid nineties, I think the rainbow motif shows some intuition. I'm wearing a dress in about 75% of the portraits. That includes one in which I sport a cute skirt, while wearing my hockey skates. I am wearing my skates in a few--my friend, Jean, spilled the beans about my being a hockey player in a desperate attempt to hold the interest of a couple of--um, what's the word--chauvinists? (Can you be chauvinistic at nine?) She was trying to hold the interest of a couple of skeptics. One of the skeptic artists managed to allow me a hockey helmet but felt behooved to make it bright pink. Ces't la vie.
My head (with or without hockey helmet) is humungous in most of the pictures. I choose to see this as an accurate representation of my intellect rather than a reflection of the developmental stage of their drawing skills. I wear glasses in about half of them, my hair tends to be on the longish side and my paper wardrobe is far more colourful than my real one. In one of them, I'm wearing a lumberjack shirt, knit cap and seem to have a five o'clock shadow. I love them all and I can't help notice that in almost every single one, I look undeniably happy. Excellent intuition.

Our time together included a talk about where writing ideas come from. I told them about hearing a line I liked, writing it down and then, "What If"-ing it into a story. The skeptics looked dubious.
"Give me any ordinary object," says I.
"The school," says they.
"What if the front doors were magic and if you turned around and walked through them backwards, it gave you a Super Power?"
And that was it. They were gone. The Super Power was Invisibiltiy! Yes! Three of them started clapping and bouncing spontaneously - that's our favourite Super Power!
What if the school was made of cake and the kids ate it all and then there was no more school? (Even the skeptics were rolling now.) What if the cake grew back no matter how much you ate? (parlayed the school-lovers). What if everyone tasted their favourite kind of cake? What if you had to turn backwards at the end of the day to go through the doors to undo your Super Power and what if you forgot and what if you were invisible forever and what if . . . .
Big eyes, bums bouncing around on the carpet, talking over top of one another, various branches of the story taking off in little side conversations. Trickle to waterfall in less than a minute. Literally.
What if you could find that creativity again?
Don't tell me you have none. Creativity comes standard on all models. It may be buried, shoved to a back corner in the storage room, but it's still there.
Whether you use your imagination to What If a story to life, or to create a great new way to introduce an old idea to your class, or to sit in your cubicle and daydream about your favourite Super Power--exercise that imagination. Honour your creativity, in whatever way makes you happy. Jean's little artists were right about me - nothing puts a face-covering smile on my face like the excitement of writing.
Except maybe sharing that excitement with children.


Monica is the author of "Thanks for chucking that at the wall instead of me."

Dougie & Mon's Excellent Writing Retreat

I did it again! Snuck away to house sit and scored three weeks of undisturbed writing time. "Wow," says you. "You must have done soooo much writing!"
You'd think.
However, the purpose of the retreat was not just to write but to switch gears. Having completed a 5 month teaching term, I needed to come back to the centre, find my own self before I ventured into the writing room in my head. Granted, I can go visit anytime and I do. But getting in there and working requires some prep work. Just like my physical office, my mental writing room needs to be tidy. Which is why I can't write and teach at the same time. Too many kids in the room.
So, I know I need that transition time but for me, it's easier in theory than practice. When I have the luxurious gift of time to dedicate just to writing, I have a tendency to put high expectations on myself. There will be no lolly-gagging and certainly no gallivanting. There will be discipline and a routine that will be followed by everyone at the writing retreat.
I guess this would be the place to introduce Doug, my companion and colleague for this event.

Now Doug has a slightly different view of such things. Of all things, actually, as he has only one eye. I found Doug to be very open to most of my suggestions. In theory.
This was Doug's response to my Opening Day of the Retreat lecture, titled, "We will all sleep in our own beds":

This is not Doug's bed.
Come to think of it, I gave the same address at my last house-sit/writing retreat and got the following response:

Anyway, despite a few differing opinions that had to be worked out, I soon came to appreciate Doug's wisdom and it was he who saved me from spinning like a top and getting nothing done while freaking out about getting nothing done.
Here is a snippet of that particular conversation:
Me: I am freaking out and getting nothing done!
Doug:
Me: Because I can't concentrate on anything. I can't settle. I can't sit still.
Doug:
Me (two hours later): You were so right, my friend. The walk helped tremendously. But I still don't know what I should be working on and I have got to have something to show for three weeks of writing time!
Doug:
Me: Well, to me, I guess. I hate it when I feel like I have wasted time.
Doug:
Me: Hm. Interesting. I DO allow other writers more room for the non-writing part of writing. But still - three weeks!
Doug:
Me: Yes, that might work. I'll break it up into three pieces and the first I will dedicate to "coming back to the writing world", the second will be "write anything" and the third will be "project work."
Doug:
Me: Okay, but I don't see how rubbing your tummy will invoke my Muse.

During that first week, I did a lot of reading and thinking and of course, talking to Doug. We had a good discussion about character one afternoon over coffee and carrots. (I don't know - maybe he figures with one eye left, he needs to eat a LOT of carrots. And he does.) Anyway, Doug was pointing out the dangers of flat characters in those roles that fall between major characters and "walk-ons." He used his stuffy as an example, while I focused more on a character in a short story I've been working on.

As always, Doug made a compelling argument.
In the end, I came home with a couple of new short pieces with potential and a renewed vision and enthusiasm for my short story project. It felt so good to have created something - anything - new. But most of all, to have had the time to just be. To remember this part of who I am, to tidy up the office in my mind, gently pushing the children out into the capable hands of other teachers. To rediscover long-untouched files and remember why they delighted me in the first place. Now, I open the door and find familiar faces and voices eager to be brought out of the room and into the world. I once again feel the excitement of creating new characters . . .

. . . as Doug demonstrated one day with a brilliant and inspiring metaphorical lesson on character development. I'm telling you, this guy is a genius. If you ever get a chance to attend one of Doug's writing seminars, don't miss it!

So much depends . . .

It's January 11, and fifteen teaching days remain in my current contract. The turn of the calendar has prompted more conversation at home and at work about the coming transition.
I'm a bit surprised by how sad I am. I don't wish the term was longer and I'm anxious to get back to my writing, but I . . . well, I have grown accustomed to their faces.
I've grown accustomed to joyful eyes and the open glow of pride. I've grown accustomed to the radiance of wonder, the twinkle of mischief and the fearlessness of affection.
Yesterday they wrote poems in tribute to William Carlos Williams, my 8,9 and 10 year olds. Here are a few of them, with the permission of the authors, of course, and with a nod to WCW who, I believe would be fine with our form of flattery.

So much depends
upon
the sea;
a surprise to all -
a secret not to be told.
N

So much depends
upon
a journal,
filled with funny stories
to lift your heart
every day.
K

So much depends
upon
a silver fish
leaping from the water
to be seen by
no-one.
B

So much depends
upon
a tree in a grassy field;
the smell of hay
floating through its
red and gold
leaves.
L

With eyes closed, I listened to over twenty poems yesterday and marveled at how such young minds grapple with art, with expression, with their own thoughts.
I visualize myself leaving on January 31, closing the classroom door. Although I will feel sad, gratitude will resonate loudest in my heart because, as with so many of my classes over the years, they've taught me far more than I've taught them.
Monica is the author of "Thanks for chucking that at the wall instead of me."