I have toughened up a lot over the past 6 years. Being a farm girl does that to you. You see up-close-and-personal how brutal and unyielding nature can be. However, you also feel profound beauty and see what a mysterious miracle that life is.
Learning To Let Go: Lessons from Nature — Produce with Amy
“I don’t ask for the sights in front of me to change, only the depth of my seeing.”
-Mary Oliver
I never imagined that our hoop house would be my new classroom. However, we’re living through some interesting times. I thought our food plot would be a unique place to record a video for my students to show them what my life is like outside of the classroom.
My husband said this is definitely my “Teacher Look” or “Teacher Lady” as he affectionately calls me.
I guess that yesterday’s distance learning translated to Bog boots since it is mud season in Michigan (plus, we have chickens – enough said). 🤣 Yet, it was a photo worthy moment because I even applied makeup and ran a brush through my hair.
The world is our classroom after all!
We have been out of school since March 13 due to the Covid-19 virus. It has been surreal to say the least. This week I started an on-line Pandemic Journal with my students. I wanted to model to them what their journals may look like so I am stepping outside my comfort zone and am creating videos in hopes I can make a connection with them.
This was my video today (I will type the journal entry below):
April 21, 2020
A reflection from my Facebook social media post on Thursday, April 16th at 3:51 pm
“The painful things seemed like knots on a beautiful necklace, necessary for keeping the beads in place.” ~ Anita Diamant
The above was the last prompt I gave my students before the world seemed to slowly turn upside down.
I’ve kept this quote in my collective memory and I have thought of my students often, but I had to remove myself emotionally from the reality of what was happening so it didn’t hit so hard. I was trying to hold things together like those knots on that beautiful necklace. I kept distant from my feelings and denied myself the opportunity to mourn. Guarded. We all mourn differently.
Today I took the drive and the awkward steps into my classroom. It was quiet but it still felt like home. It comforted the rawness around my heart.
My mailbox offerings left a lump in my throat and were the catalyst for warm tears. Finally the tears. Packages for my students – Outrageous Request Letters granted. We must wait until the “Shelter in Place” order is lifted.
I gathered my remaining plants. The geraniums I winter each year in my classroom. I grabbed several on our last day – not sure what the coming days would hold. When I returned today I didn’t expect any signs of life, but green still resided in a few of the pots. With some TLC a couple of them will recover.
I will take these packages and the green leaves as a sign of hope. A promise that better days are coming.
The anxious knots in my stomach are not in vain. They too are signs of life. Signs of compassion and a softness that makes a teacher a force to be reckoned with.
My colleagues and I are entering a new phase of our career – a part not fully developed or chartered. We are making maps. We are defining our new roles.
My empty journal is a ready for words. My students and I will guide each other.
We will write our stories –
so we,
and others,
can remember.
My weary classroom plants.
Outrageous Requests granted. I will have to post about this assignment – it’s my favorite!
Signs of life. The plant on the right is loving the TLC.
We still have a lot of snow on the ground!
Our hoop house is one of my favorite places to getaway and focus on growth!
Here is yesterday’s video:
BRANCHES LIKE NERVE ENDINGS
How do I quiet my breath
to match the stars –
and make my papery eye-lids
feel like rain?
The birches are dressed in starch
and my neighbor’s awkward
garden raises weeds and
a tangle of berries.
The sky whispered lies yesterday
screamed a false blue
aqua like a Scandinavian soup
bowl, rimmed in yellow.
The birds, feathered messengers
of fear
shivered.
I write pages in my head,
my pen never touching down.
Last night I read somewhere,
“Read a thousand books
and your writing will flow like
a river.”
My heart feels like a lake,
Bottomless, metallic, and
hungry.
Sometimes I hear voices in feathers.
Crows write words in the sky,
like graceful quills
that embroider the dome with
loopy cursive.
Elegant reminders of
my own clumsiness.
Etch
verbs that I cannot decipher
without beating wings.
They scream a dialect
I cannot remember.
I fumble for the searing syllables.
It is no use.
I
cannot
caw.
Once I kissed a boy until
I realized his mind was empty
I could never love him
He did not know enough
words.
He could not describe how blue
the sky was and his insides did not
ache for the vibrant shade
of green the sky turns
after it rains.
I felt alone,
even when he clutched my hand.
Feverishly, I composed line-after-
line in my journal.
I was convinced I would rather
be alone.
My heart does not trust
Forests
where no trees grow.
~Amy
September 27, 2012
Another snowshoeing jaunt that left me mesmerized with our own backyard. Is there anything ever as beautiful as the land you toil over and dream into being?
I guess our phone upgrade was well worth the extra monthly charge. These photos were captured at dark – charged by only a segment of moon. Technology is amazing!
I often ask my students to write a letter to their “younger self.” I write that letter in my head every day.
Be patient.
You will find your forest and your home.
All the words are there.
Trust that he knows them by heart.
Home is a verb –
A garden
A place where your soul rests and awakens
invents a new language.
A place of potential and possibility.
💚
If you need proof, open your eyes.
Glitter and Dog Hair 