the tree on the wall

I'm going to build a tree today. A tree on the wall. Its trunk - brown paper, its leaves - plastic, its effect - magical.

I built my tree last year too. It took six hours, about a thousand tacks, and a ladder twice my height. But when my students walk in and see the tree on the wall, the one arching over their library filled with books waiting to to be discovered and loved, they stare in awe.

There is a tree. In their classroom. A shady spot to read. And suddenly it's no longer paper, plastic, and thumbtacks. It's a world beyond their hard lives where adventure and laughter wait.

And the tree invites them in.

can you be?

you bring the question forward
that lurks in back my brain
swept in cobwebs of regret
and too many should-have-beens.
a hope gone stale to disenchantment,
bitter,
begins to slide out of shadow
and with hesitation seeks the light.

loose tooth

I'm back, blogosphere, and I'm better than ever. Okay, maybe that's an exaggeration, but it sure sounded good, right? And confident. Like I should be bursting through the doors in a great pair of heels and one of those huge wide-brimmed hats that women only wear to fancy horse races, arms out and voice raised in triumph. So maybe in real life it's more like flip-flops and frizzy hair, and I trip through the doorway and my voice has a little bit of that change of pitch on the end that makes a statement sound more like a question. Am I better than ever?

There is a line I like from a Caedmon's Call song that goes, "You know I had a laugh that the same old struggles that plagued me then are plaguing me still." Is that not the human condition? I notice a weakness, try to scrub it out, only to find myself back where I started. It's like a loose tooth. You know it'll hurt if you press on it, but you just can't stop yourself because even though it hurts, there is something oddly comforting in the pain.

I'm like that with comparisons. Not the literary or philosophical kind, but those sneaky half-conscious comparisons I make between myself and others, usually other women. I see another girl and wish I was that thin. Or that tall. Or that artistic. Or that intellectual. Or blah, blah, blah. The list goes on, the list of things I view as glaring inadequacies within myself and unfair blessings to others. And then they turn into questions to God. God, why did you make me so scatter-brained? God, why did you make me with big thighs? God, why did you make me so ___________? I begin to question my very design.

The thing is, it's not about measuring up. It's about being better than someone else. Because if I'm better than someone else, then that gives me a sense of pride. And therein lies the true darkness. C.S. Lewis described pride as the root of all sin, or the granddaddy of sins, if you will permit a coloquial rephrasing. You see, the real reason I compare myself to others is not to feel like I'm less than others (although I will come back to that in a moment), it's for that rare and fleeting moment where I feel like I am more than others. It's when the pain turns into selfish joy. Ugly. I'm so ugly then.

The other side is that there is something oddly comforting about feeling less than others. I can turn it into an excuse. I'm not pretty enough to go talk to that guy or I'm not organized enough to remember your birthday. Those are things that beautiful girls with dayminders do. Not me. There's relief in the excuse. It's really quite handy that way. I can also play the victim. I can feel sorry for myself and wallow and have an Eeyore-type attitude because I have so obviously been overlooked in the gene pool. This is quite convenient as well, because suddenly I've shifted the blame. I make it God's responsibility.

So this is where I find myself again. Wiggling that loose tooth. Sticking the thorn back in my side. Comparing myself with those around me. Maybe I never really stopped, but just became less conscious of it. Either way, here it is, staring me in the face. So now I have a choice. I can choose to question God, make excuses, and play the victim. I can choose to bury myself in that strangely comforting pain. Or I can choose to believe God. I can believe Him when He tells me that he lovingly and artistically molded me. I can believe Him when He shows me that through Him all things are possible. And I can believe Him when He reminds me that He has made me more than a conqueror.

The choice is not easy.
But the choice is clear.

the disappearance of an inconsistent blogger

end of school year

hectic

*gasp*

no time

see you in june

frosty

It's 44 degrees today.

Yesterday it snowed.

I wore a coat and fleece pants to walk the dog.

It's April 13th, well within the Spring season.

I live in Missouri.

Global warming who?

mother bird

If you are one of the two people who read my blog, you have noticed that state testing has been a central focus of recent posts. If not, you should really take the time right now to go back and review. The sarcasm and scathing wit is really not to be missed. I'll wait.

Now that you've caught up, it's time for a confession. Part of why I despise this time of the school year so strongly is because of the doubt. This is the time when I question all of the steps that led me to this point throughout the school year. It boils down to this: Did I do enough?

When he told me he didn't understand, did I find another way to explain it? When her hard work paid off, did I celebrate? When they made mistakes, did I show them grace? When I heard angry words, did I listen for the pain behind them?

I love my kids and I want them to have the best in life, and that includes the best of me. This is the time of the year I have to start loosening my grip on them, fluffing their wings, nudging them to the edge of the nest. So one question overshadows them all: Did I teach them to fly?

unfortunate reality

Tips for how to succeed at state testing:

1. Teach all curriculum by the end of March.

2. Teach only subjects that you will be testing. Science, history, art, music? Not on the test. Not important.

3. Give kids special pencils. They're magic.

4. Do lots and lots of review packets. When your kids are sick of hearing the word "packet", start calling them "review bundles" or "practice presents".

5. Spend money on MAP testing t-shirts for all of the teachers. Ignore the budget crisis. Kids don't need books or desks without duct tape.

6. Bribe.