A full night’s sleep is that icy cold glass of lemonade on a sweltering summer day.
A lip parted smile complete with eye contact is that first sip of merlot on Friday night.
A whispered, sincere conversation while leaning on the drinking fountain is that gulp of coffee, fresh ground and hot.
Clean socks are that steaming hot chocolate with whip cream mounded high above the rim of a heavy ceramic mug.
A heavy lapful of cat is that mulled cider, redolent with cinnamon and clove, its steam curling up to caress your frozen face.
I am grateful for small moments of mindfulness.
“Hot Chocolate” by Renee McGurk is shared under a CC by 2.0 license.
Lately, I’ve surrounded my classroom with poetry and gratitude. I’ve found that which surrounds often slips into the cracks of your soul, peeks out from under the covers, whispers behind your left ear as you go about your day.
It slides down your throat like honey, soothing a throat sore with complaining. It cushions the hard wooden seat, cracked with fidgets. It is a belt loop bigger or elastic waistbands after a Thanksgiving feast. Or flannel pajama pants after a long day of hose and heels. It is triumphant music that swells overtop the daily grind of what we must do.
February is normally a month of gray mornings and empty evenings. By cuddling up to some silent poetry reading and journaling about gratitude every day, I have renewed my passion to be here, in the moment, with my students. Revel in the everyday.
“Person” by geralt is shared under a CC.0 license
If I were to choose a skill that I am grateful I possess, it would be my ability to be enthusiastic. This is not a skill I developed; it is a skill gifted to me since birth. I am the lightning strike, the cloudburst, the wild crying jag you get after seeing that ASPCA commercial. My internal volume is always set at 85 decibels. I’m the beaming good morning on the first day after Christmas Break, the beatnik snaps after you recite your poem, the smiley face sticker on your paper.
Like many a confused extrovert, I am more than wild intensity. I am the peppermint essential oil to banish your migraine, the band-aid for your knee, the box of tissues for your breakup. I am long anticipated books, bought the day they are published, charge cords and power strips when your battery is about to die, and sharpened pencils with new erasers.
For all these traits, for my students and the supporting staff with which I work, I am grateful.
“Lightning” by One Day Closer is shared under a CC by 2.0 license.
Yesterday, all I could think about was myself. My enjoyment, my free time, my worries. How could I have forgotten Cub Scouts? Let me tell you about our Cub Master, Marc Quick.
Imagine that your children are all grown up, as are your grandchildren. You served your country in the Army. You have a full-time job. And yet, you are still willing to sleep overnight on your church’s hard floor, just to let a group of elementary age boys and their reluctant parents experience camping out. You willing sit through two kid movies, pass out popcorn and pop, clean up the inevitable spills. When you realize our space rockets are all missing the bracket, you shrug and plan how your third grade den will build the launcher next week.
Marc is the first one at the church to open it up. He listens with a kind ear to any crazy scheme we newbie Scout leaders want to try. Hold the fishing derby at Camp Birch? Sure! Send the whole pack to the Spook-o-ree and camp all weekend? Why not? You want to take your den to the Wittenberg Observatory? He’s there, with a smile and a Scout shirt, neatly pressed.
Marc is our calm male role model. He is the one with the wooden mallets he made by hand, and hand drills to make Christmas presents. He brings the hammers and nails, to build a brag board with all the knots my son knows how to tie.
Thank you, Marc, for all that you do for us.
“Marc Quick & Lions” by Jackie O’Connor is shared under an Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives 4.0 International and is not free to be reused except with permission.
This weekend, I spent a lot of time playing video games. It is a great escape for me, and I am grateful that my husband bought the game for me during Christmas break. I like the thrill of saving digital people, even though I know when I log off, they are not really still in danger. It can be addicting to play, to finish that next quest, to plan how that settlement can thrive without my intervention.
It would be wonderful if life were that simple. If only I could quit and save while my 1st period is typing about gratitude, knowing they are diligently working without my direct observation. But alas, real life is not a video game.
In the process of playing this weekend, I entertained the idea of playing Minecraft with my son, although playing with him is often a long tutorial about how to play. He watches YouTube videos about Minecraft, so even at 8 he knows more than I do about strategy.
I just read an article on NPR about parenting styles, and I’m a little concerned about our screen usage. Turns out I’m a permissive screen parent. Although this doesn’t totally surprise me, it was a bit of a downer. To top it off, my son complained that he struggles to fall asleep. Could his Minecraft till bedime obsession be part of the problem?
Luckily, I have a potential solution. He’s already busy on Mondays till 7 pm at Cub Scouts. If I can hold firm, we can go “offline” for an hour before bedtime with no problems. But it’ll be a challenge since I have quizzes to grade.
This post was supposed to be about gratitude but veered off into an anxious rant about parenting. Is this my life now?
“3 Things You Could Do To Kill the Time Until Fallout 4 Comes Out” by BagoGames is shared under a CC by 2.0 license.