Filed under: Art of the Day, Teaching | Tags: middle school, Online school, pandemic, resurrection, screentime, spring, Teaching during the pandemic
They have done exactly what we asked them to do, the children. Last March, almost a whole year now, we asked them to retreat down into the safety of their screens as we closed the schools down. Of course it had to be done. Down down down they went into their respective burrows. Their lives became very small, smaller still through the winter that has kept us mostly indoors. Being with anyone other than family is a rarity. Going to the grocery is an occasion.
The school where I teach has offered in person classes since the middle of fall. Not everyone chose to come back, but the ones who did, came back to a wildly different school. It’s a pod-based world where they sit in one room safely (it is hoped) distanced from the desk next to them. All day they sit there, unless the weather allows for breaks outside. The teachers of the various subjects come to them, lunch is brought to them. They sit. A lot of us teachers try to get them moving as much as possible, but it is getting harder and harder to get them to do it. At least the middle school classes I am teaching. I go into their pods to teach them, but I am also simultaneously teaching the other pods down the hall and the kids at home who have chosen to simulcast their classes. So I am teaching the kids in the pod face to face, only I am tethered to the tiny computer camera through which I try to reach all the other students. It’s schizoid. I teach theater. Normally this is an on-your-feet class full of games, team building, improvisations and rehearsals all working toward an end of semester production. All of this has been shot to hell this last year, though my high schoolers and I have created original plays written for and about Zoom that I am very proud of. Zoom plays don’t work in the hybrid middle school world though.
The year has dragged on and on. Often I feel myself floating above my life feeling that I have dreamt it. I have to remind myself at times that I am actually a teacher, that I have a job at a school that is real and that I am teaching real classes. And if I feel that way, I know the kids do too. School may not feel real at all to them, the assignments, the online lectures, the tests. There is so little you can actually touch. The body is not involved at all. It’s all blah blah blah, a tiny head in a box.
The winter has been hard on us all. I’ve become invisible to kids I have known for years, kids I’ve directed, laughed with, applauded for. The first day back from winter break, I walked into a classroom and said ‘hello, I’m so happy to see you’ and no one raised their head. They are sunk down into their chromebooks, some have earphones on. They don’t see me, they don’t hear me. I am not real to them. Their bubbly banter is gone. If they are communicating with each other, it is through subterranean tunnels connecting their burrows that we cannot see. Last March we asked them to live inside their screens and they complied. They are down there now, in their cozy tunnels or their snide dens (if they are seventh graders). I stand at the entrance and call down to them- Can you hear me? Is anybody home? Ollie Ollie in come free!
The sun is returning, there are warmer days ahead. I’ll do my best to lure them out again, create a safe place for us all to play. I pray that they are like the snowdrops now blooming all over my hillside. Once the weight of winter has melted away and the danger has lifted even a little, I pray that there they all are- blooming, undamaged, undiscouraged.
Filed under: Art of the Day, Uncategorized, Writing | Tags: Death of a pet, Dog, Mr. Darcy, poetry
Mr. Darcy, a great friend to everyone, is gone. He died at home, where he always longed to be, after a sudden and catastrophic decline. He did not suffer long and that is a great comfort. He was the sweetest and the most loyal lieutenant, a good boy to the end. He was an exquisite artist in his younger days, pure poetry in motion as he played frisbee. He could spot a rabbit in the dark at 50 yards, alert us quickly to anything unusual happening without making too big a fuss, and was a patient mother to a number of kittens over the years. A friend to all cats, mail carriers, neighbors, visitors, small fluffy dogs and his best pal Johnny, Didi will be sorely missed. He loved his family most of all, and never left my side, even if I wanted him to. Separation was his greatest trial. It is a blessing that his passing took place at home, in my room, where he has slept for the last ten years. May his great spirit be Home at last.
I wrote the following poem yesterday as part of a class on epistolary poetry I am taking. It helped, a little.
Dear Cindy,
friend poet,
.
You write of the peace
of butterflies
And for a moment
I am filled with breath
Like the opening of soft wings
And it is a balm.
.
I never knew
How soon the tongue blackens,
How quickly the limbs stiffen,
When life has left.
I never knew,
As my body knows now,
What it means to move
dead weight.
.
Our sweetest boy,
Died in the night
By the foot of the bed
At his post to the end.
.
Frozen rain hits the window,
The hearth fire crackles,
All I see is where he ought to be but isn’t.
.
You write of wild horses
And warm empty beaches,
Of bioluminescence and butterflies,
.
I take a breath,
Feel the soft wings flutter.
Filed under: Art of the Day, Writing | Tags: dear friend, Ice storm, poetry
Were the world arranged solely for my pleasure
most winter mornings would begin like this one
with a slow dawn on a fine snow blanket
covering the ice that fell
all night long
leaving the roads
blessedly empty of their daily business
because the stakes are just too high.
.
I am thankful for the quiet
for the gathering of cardinals
so grand against the winter white
for the way I must plan each step outside
turning the morning walk with dogs
into a small pilgrimage
as the mind is bent on exactly now-
snow crunch silhouette of trees
twinkling ice made prisms of the dawn.
.
I am thankful that I can lay a silver branch before you
from the land where all night long
twelve princesses danced through their shoes.
.
Good morning my poet friend.
The Fox at Dawn 