I am currently an ELA Curriculum Coordinator (JPK-5th grade) and have been an educator for 40 years. Over the years, I've worked with students in pre-school to 12th grade. The power of story, creativity, and curiosity have kept teaching and learning exciting and new. I'm always looking forward to the next chapter!
September and October have buzzed by at a hectic pace. One week’s “To Do” list is accomplished only to be replace with the next week’s list. I feel like I will never get off this seemingly never-ending cycle. I keep arranging and rearranging my schedule trying to find bits of time to breathe. The bits are not enough, and I feel stress and anxiety creeping in. I know that I have to make myself slow down and concentrate on what makes me healthy and whole. I need to go back to poetry and photography. I need to return to natural beauty.
This summer, my husband and I planned an October trip to New Hampshire, and I’m glad we did. We thought that because of COVID we might not be able to follow through on our plans, but we found ourselves in dire need of nature and restoration. We headed out of New Jersey, up through New York state, into the Green Mountains of Vermont, and into the White Mountains of New Hampshire. The nine-hour trip slowly melted all my tension away. As we drove, I watched the lush autumn scenery and forgot about all the things that need to be done; that tugged at me for attention.
I started thinking about how to capture what I saw with my camera and how to put words to the beauty I was witnessing. I focused on color and played with ways to express the fall foliage in a new way.
This week, I entered a 4th grade classroom to see students at their desks silently moving their lips and quietly tapping their fingers. I heard a hum, “5-7-5… 5,7,5…” and then tapping, clapping, and snapping. I knew immediately what they were busy creating. They were constructing haiku.
In the last two weeks, the teacher introduced haiku as an accessible way for students to get to know each other. She asked them to write haiku which described who were without giving a physical description. First, she had laid the groundwork reminding them of the haiku form and reviewing background information, sharing examples of haiku from the Japanese poets, Basho, Shiki, and Issa. As I listened, I learned something I had not know before. In Matsuyama, Japan and its surrounding prefecture, they have built special mailboxes expressly for the purpose of sharing haiku. They are beautiful works of art in and of themselves, and as I saw the pictures of the mailboxes placed all around the city, I had an idea. I asked the teacher if I could construct a haiku mailbox for the 4th grade. She thought it was a wonderful idea and reported that her students have been happily depositing their work into the mailbox. I am looking forward to the time when we share our poems.
The school year began in a rush and is continuing at a frenetic pace. I have been trying to pause throughout my day and catch a breath. I’m finding that this is not enough. I am making it my intention to pull away on the weekends and devote time to poetry, photography and art. Photography helps me get into the flow of the moment. When I am walking in the woods, gardens, or parks, I direct my attention to what I see. It is like going on a treasure hunt, and my camera records my beautiful or surprising sights. When I am looking through my camera lens, I am not thinking of anything else. I am only concentrating on the object. I let it tell me how it wants to be captured and remembered. I experiment with angles and exposures until I feel I have expressed the object’s mood and essence. Immediately, a sense of calm permeates my spirit. I have entered a fall flow. After I have collected several photographs, I sit quietly and let the words come to me. They come tapping into my mind – “5-7-5,… 5,7,5…” The rhythm relaxes me. I can continue to flow.
This week, I came across two picture books that reminded me about how important grandmothers are in the lives of children. Grandmothers are wise leaders and mentors. They have gentle and guiding hands. They offer solace for scraped knees, dented feelings, and broken hearts. They can set the world right again.
In my own life, I never knew my maternal grandmother. She died six years before I was born. I know her only from the stories told to me by other family members. I was told that I look a lot like she did. My name resembles hers. Her name was Josephine; mine is Joanne, but my parents always called me Josie. They told me I had Josephine’s eyes and smile. It was hard, at first, for me to see myself in the old photographs of her. It took me years to find my smile in hers and her eyes in mine. But yes, she is within me even though I never had the good fortune to meet her.
My paternal grandmother divorced my grandmother when my father was twelve years old. At ninety-five, my father continues to be bitter about this and his relationship with his mother was distant and fraught with anger. Olga lived in Florida, so we did not see her often. We went a few times to visit her in the sunshine state, and she came north to visit us in New Jersey a few times. Every Christmas, she would send straw-filled crates of oranges, grapefruits, key limes, and chocolate covered coconut patties. For this, Olga held a special place in my heart, but we did not have the close, supportive relationship that I craved. That empty spot was filled by my incredible grandfathers, Charlie and Tony. They were my confidants and my champions. With them I was able to be myself, and just be held.
When I happened upon Nana Akua Goes to School by Tricia Elam Walker and April Harrison in our school library, I knew I held a special gem in my hands. And I was eager to think about how to share its gifts with our Kindergarten and 1st grade students. The book recounts the relationship between Zura and her grandmother, Nana Akua, whose names means “born on Wednesday” in Twi, the language of Ghana. The children in Zura’s class are celebrating Grandparents’ Day and are asked to invite their relatives to come to school and share their stories. Zura is a bit worried about her grandmother coming to school because Nana Akua has scars on her cheeks from an old West African tradition where parents put marks on her face to show which tribal family she belonged to. These marked represented beauty and confidence. Zura fears that her classmates will be scared of Nana. Of course, Nana is a wise woman and when she visits, she brings with her calm understanding and shows the beauty of her culture. She explains the Adinkra symbols to the children, having them choose one that represents themselves, and paints the symbol on each child’s check. The book’s endpapers show each Adinkra symbol, and I contemplated how best to share this story with our students. I practiced making the symbols and creating some of my own. When I read this book the students, I will encourage them to explore and create these symbols also.
Thinking about grandmothers, I came across another picture book, Grandmother School by Rina Sigh and Ellen Rooney. It takes place in India and is based on a true story about a grandmother, Aaji, who is finally allowed to go to school with a bunch of other grandmothers. The thatched roof and mud floors of the school is much different from the shiny schools that American children are accustomed to. The grandmothers had not be allowed to go to school when they were young. Now they were able to return to school so they could learn to read and write. Some people thought, “Learning at this age was a waste of time.” But of course, it was not a waste of time at all. By the end of the year, the grandmothers have learned so much: to count, to sign their names, and to read beautiful words like mango, river, bird, and rain.
The real grandmother school, Aajibaichi Shala, is located in Phangane, a small village in India 77 miles from Mumbai. The school was started in 2016 by Yogendra Bangar, a local schoolteacher, who wanted everyone is his village to be able to read and write. Twenty-nine grandmothers attended the school. They were over the age of sixty, and the oldest grandmother is ninety. This was their first opportunity to learn. I love the message of this story: Learning is timeless. No one is too old to learn. There is hope and opportunity to achieve no matter what age you are. What a wonderful gift to young readers far and wide!
It is a typical Monday. I sip on a cup of French vanilla coffee, inhale the rich soothing aroma, then head off to my first class of the week. Every morning for about two and a half hours, I observe and support young children from three to ten years old. Many people might find this job daunting, but the more I do it, the more I realize I was born to do this. I love solving problems. I love connecting with kids. I guess that’s why I have been able to teach for over forty years without feeling burned out and uninspired. The kids always find a way to kindle my curiosity.
This morning, I settle into the back of a 5th grade math class. The teacher is eliciting ideas from her students about number patterns on a thousands chart. “What do you notice?” she asks, and several hands shoot up. Soon, students are taking turns discussing all kinds of patterns, some easily apparent and some more enigmatic. I am sitting between two students who engage me in conversation. My role has changed since last year when I was the ELA Curriculum Coordinator so the student on my right is surprised to see me in math class and asks ,“Mrs. E, what is your job? I just don’t get it!” I laugh and she apologies, but I reassure her that she doesn’t need to apologize. I tell her that many adults don’t know exactly what I do, and sometimes I myself have a hard time explaining what I do. Simply put, I help students learn.
“If you need help understanding something, I’m here to show you the way,” I say smiling broadly.
Then the student to my left begins to explain an intricate pattern she sees in the thousands chart. I am amazed. I tell the girls that math is not my strong suit, but I am curious about it.
I explain, “Numbers are like cats to me, they want to do their own thing and they are a bit mysterious.”
“Me too!” shouts the girl to my right.
“On the other hand,” I continue, “ Words are like puppies, they are friendly, and you can play with them.”
The girl on my right shouts again, “SAME!”
The math teacher is now looking at me, and I know it’s time to get back to business. I circulate around the room to see how students are tackling fraction problems. I am able to guide some on the right track and that makes me feel proud. I want the girls to see me as an adult who doesn’t always know the answers, but who will keep trying to understand and find the answer.
Later on Monday, a small group of 5th graders join me at recess to craft in the Wonder Studio, which is the lobby outside my office that I converted into a makerspace after the original makerspace (The Wonder Lab), was dismantled to create a new classroom space for computer science and engineering. The space can no longer accommodate a whole class of students, but small groups can participate. This makes for an intimate and cozy makerspace. I let the girls dabble and get acquainted with the available materials. I start crafting too. At the end of our time, Erin tells me to hold out my hands. I obey and a bright litter of pipe cleaner kittens tumble into my hands. I want you to have them,” Erin says cheerily. I thank her and she run back to her classroom. An hour later, I see Erin in the hallway. She tells me to go to her desk in her classroom. She has make more kittens for me. I enter her empty classroom and pick up the kittens. Erin’s teacher greets me as I turn to leave. “Cute, aren’t they?” I say. She smiles weakly, “She make them all through my social studies lesson.” “Oh,” I say suddenly deflated, “ We will need to talk to her about that.” I quickly exit quickly, walking down the hallway softly petting my new kittens cupping them in my hands protectively.
Now it is Tuesday at lunchtime. I am eating in a tight corner in the faculty room. The same teacher finds me to say that one of her students cannot come up with a topic for her writing assignment. The child is stuck, and the teacher is out of ideas. She asks me to work with the student at recess time, which is in five minutes. I agree and start packing up my half-eaten lunch. I walk to Emma’s classroom and find her just about to play a board game with a group of friends. “Emma?” I say sweetly, “ You are going to work with me. Please get your pencil.”
She looks at me. She is a smart cookie. She knows why I have come. Emma is an avid reader and a talented writer, but sometimes she gets stuck initiating ideas for writing and completely shuts down. All the. way to my office, I keep the mood light. I want to set a positive and carefree tone.
When we get to my office, Emma sits in a sunny seat by a window. I tell her that I am here to help her come up with an idea for her writing assignment. Half of her writing paper is folded up like an accordion. I smooth it down and begin to pepper her with ideas that I think she’d be interested in lacrosse, Vermont, and crafting.
She shakes her head and then says, ”Well, I am making a sweatshirt.”
“Yeah, tell me about that,” I say hopefully.
Emma begins to tell me about the sweatshirt she is making, which is dark blue with light blue sleeves. I stand at my whiteboard easel and make a web as she speaks. I write down all that she describes. I ask some questions to guide her. Soon, the web is complete.
I push her paper closer and say, “Okay now write what you just old me.”
Emma does not pick up her pencil. She is biting her bottom lip.
“Shall we come up with a first sentence together?”
She nods in agreement and we do. Then I walk away and tell her that I am going to give her some quiet time to write. When I return a couple of minutes later, Emma is back to folding her paper. Her feet are tapping the rungs of her chair. Her eyes are wide and glossy as she stares at me. I take one look at her and gently take the paper away.
“You are not in trouble, “ I say. “My job is to help kids through problems. Can you tell me what is making you stuck?”
Emma remains silent.
“You are a great writer. We just have to find the right story,” I say, silently praying for a miracle. “What if we pretend it’s after school and we are having milk and cookies.
I continue, “Hey Emma, tell me about something you love. Can you tell be about your dogs?”
Emma’s shoulders relax. Her blue eyes begin to dance as she tells me all about her Maltese and Yorkie.
When she is through, I smile and say, ”Okay do you think you can write about your dogs now.” My heart is beating wildly. I am holding my breath.
“No,” she says quietly.
My heart skips a beat.
“But…” she adds, “I can tell you about my cats.”
I exhale loudly and grin, “Great, tell me about your cats, and I take up my pencil and begin to make a web from the information that Emma shares. We have completed a second web, and now it is time to return to class.
“Do you think you can write a story using this web?” I ask Emma. She nods positively. We walk back to her classroom both satisfied.
On Thursday afternoon, I am walking past the play area to my office. Emma’s teacher points to a patch of grass where her students are busy writing. I spy a small girl hidden in a blanket hunched over her laptop. Emma’s teacher whispers, “She’s in the zone. She has three paragraphs so far.” I am pleased and relieved. The writer has conquered her writer’s block. Curious cats to the rescue!
In schools across the country and probably across the world, September means assessments. We give all kinds of assessments to get to know our students, or should I say to get to know their academic strengths and weaknesses. I don’t think assessments have anything to do with getting to know our students. We determine who is high, medium, and low; who succumbed to “The Summer Slide,” and who excelled without our teaching. We do this in the grand name of progress. We pore over every score. Who is proficient and fluent? Who is struggling and not retaining the concepts and skills we’ve taught? But what do those numbers and labels that we diligently collect really tell us? What do we truly understand about the information we gathered? And how does that data affect our instruction?
As an elementary school learning specialist, I am keenly aware of these questions because I am not sure that copious amounts of data are changing or improving our teaching. I think the majority of teachers – whether in public, charter, or private schools – revert to the mean. By which I mean, they revert to what they know: they teach to the middle, often leaving behind the students with weaker skills and also boring to tears the students who have surpassed their grade-level standards.
I am sure teachers mean no harm. They just lack the awareness and knowledge of how to reach all students no matter their skill level. Many think you need specialized training and yes, that might be very beneficial, but what teachers really need to reach students is simple: the ability to be present and listen – the ability to tune out the educational jargon and tune into the little scholars in front of them. All they have do is ask…
What does this child need?
What is she telling me?
What can I do to build her knowledge, her confidence, her motivation, and her curiosity?
How can I create a classroom experience that will connect my students to each other and to big ideas too?
This past week, I came across a common assessment dilemma. A new teacher came to me with a problem. One of her young students did poorly on a sight-word spelling assessment, scoring 2 out of 27. I asked to see the assessment.
The teacher responded, “You want to see the hard copy?” And I wondered about her hesitancy until she handed me the student’s paper. Then my suspicions were confirmed. The student had left almost all of the test blank.
I asked the teacher, “What happened here? Why did she leave all these answers blank?”
The teacher replied, “I don’t know. It looked like she was writing?”
“Didn’t you walk around the room and check to see if everyone was following along?” I thought to myself, knowing full-well the answer.
The teacher responded, “I don’t think it’s my job to constantly watch over them. I can’t stand over all of them all the time!”
I took a deep breath and calmly said, “That’s not what I am suggesting. When I had my own classroom, I would walk around the classroom, so I could assess in the moment what each student was doing and what they may need assistance with.”
She was silent. Then I quietly asked to reassess the student the following day.
The teacher asked me if that was fair.
I asked her, “What is the point of the assessment?”
She answered, “To find out if they know how to spell grade-level sight words.”
I nodded, “Right, so do we understand what this student knows?”
The teacher shook her head.
Then I smiled and said, “Then I will need to reassess her.”
The next morning, I sat in our sun-filled school library in the presence of a little girl with dark braids and big brown eyes. She was eager and happy to sit with me. I explained that I would be giving her the spelling assessment again. Her bright eyes grew even larger. I told her that she should sound out the words even if she was unsure how to spell them. I told her to think carefully, go slowly, and try her best to show me what she knows about all the words I was going to read. She took up her pencil and began. I started to see what she knew. Not all the words were correct, but she spelled out each word carefully. Then I asked her why she had left so many blanks on the original assessment.
She said wisely, “I don’t like competitions.” I tried hard not to laugh.
“I don’t like to spell in front of people.” she added.
I asked her, “Were you nervous about getting the words wrong?”
“Yes,” she nodded vigorously.
When she was done, I showed her all the words she knew, and we looked at the ones she did not yet know how to spell. Many of the ones she missed, she was able to correct on her own. I gave her a lot of praise and commended her for trying and really thinking about how each word was spelled. This first grader, who originally scored 2/27, had now scored 21/27, given a second chance.
Now, why is that? Did she suddenly remember the sight words? Or is it more about confidence and performance? Does this student need more sight word drills, or does she need more encouragement? I guess it is obvious where I am going with this line of questioning. I know that assessments are useful, but if teachers are not present to their students, then the assessments can become meaningless. I humbly suggest five meaningful and mindful ways teachers can approach assessing their students:
Remain present and open to possibility.
Listen with intensity.
Give specific and positive feedback.
Find time throughout the day to encourage and motivate.
We are entering the second half of September. School has started. My busy life has begun. I reluctantly shift away from summer – the beach, the mountains, my independent reading time, the sun. And slowly I enter September already weary from thoughts of all I have to do, all I must do, all the little things that await me.
School to Do
Get the Dresses
Out of the closet.
Buy the notebooks,
New pens, paperclips,
Get the class lists,
Start putting names
With eager faces,
Put dates on calendar:
Student Support Meetings,
Set the kettle on the stove,
Brew a steaming
Cup of vanilla chai.
Breathe in the spice,
Exhale the stress.
In this moment
School can wait.
August to September
Of my own choosing:
Big road trips,
The sea and
Ready to learn.
On old walls,
A new school year.
This past week, I have been thinking of ways to energize myself for my school year. I have been going to school for sixty-two years. I have been teaching school for forty-three years. This year will be the twentieth anniversary of working at my present school. All of these years could feel like a very heavy weight, if I let them. School could finally become monotonous instead of fresh. School could become just another long and tedious “TO DO” list. Maybe instead of looking at all I have to do; I reframe my thoughts as all the wonderful thing I get to do. One day I won’t be able to do these things; one day soon I will be retired; one day soon I will not be on this marvelous blue planet. So, in this moment, why not appreciate all the things I get to do at school, at home, in my daily life.
I Get to...
Wake up this morning
To green out my window
And blue, blue sky.
Canada Geese on the field,
The verdant woods beyond.
I Get to...
Crack open a brown
egg for breakfast, sunny-side -
Multigrain toast, fig jam,
Strong Irish tea.
I Get to…
Set this day before me
With a devotion to the real,
With a disposition, sunny-side.
I Get to…
Create space and opportunity:
Laughing with loved ones,
Painting the sunset
With words and brushes.
I Get to…
Choose the day I make,
The one that was
Gratefully given to me,
The one I am blessed with.
This past week many people have been reflecting on where they were on 911. And also now after twenty years, many young people have no memory or understanding of that day. The words: Flight 11; Flight 93; Shanksville, Pennsylvania; Twin Towers; ”Let’s roll!,” have no connection for them. For me, those words still make my heart race and bring me back to that beautiful blue-sky morning – September 11, 2001. That year, I was a Learning Specialist at the Dalton School in New York City and living in Princeton, New Jersey. In that early morning, getting ready for work, I went to my car to discover a flat tire. I had to call my mechanic to get it repaired and left a message at school that I would be coming in late. Having that flat tire possibly saved my life.
I was an hour late on my journey northeast. If I had not been late, I would have been driving in lower Manhattan right when those planes hit the Twin Towers. Instead, as I drove on the Turnpike north, suddenly an electronic billboard flashed: “Plane hit Tower 1 – World Trade Center.” My husband and I looked at each other. Right away he said, “Terrorists.” He remembered the 1993 truck bombing. But I immediately thought of a small plane from nearby Teterboro Airport where I had grown up. We continued to travel north when another electronic billboard flashed: “2nd plane hits Tower 2.” We gasped. “Terrorists!” I said. “Turn around,” my husband shouted. Where do you immediately turn around on the New Jersey Turnpike? We kept moving north until we were parallel to the towers. We saw huge plumes of smoke billowing up over the New York City skyline. It was a surreal sight. I am a lifelong Jersey girl, and as a child and teenager that skyline was once so familiar and comforting to me. That city skyline signified possibility and creativity. That’s where Broadway beckons. That’s where museums filled with my favorites from Renoir, Van Gough, Matisse, and Degas stand. That’s where some of the best restaurants in the world serve up steaming plates of flavor and flair. As a teenager in the 1970s, I watched the towers slowly be constructed, rising like double steel monoliths at the southern end of Manhattan. My father was a public relations director for the Port Authority and worked on the Twin Towers project. He would tell us about the construction progress and describe how incredibly tall the towers were. The World Trade Center became quite literally part of my family.
Now pulled over on the side of Turnpike, we were watching it burn, and suddenly we saw the towers fall. In a moment, they were gone. I was thinking, “They just disappeared into smoke and dust!” My husband whispered, “All those people!” I had not thought of the people at that moment. Of course, all the people who were in the building or close by on the ground were dead. Of course, the people, the people, the people – 2,996 of them to be exact. Our country was under attack. Our national security was brought into question.
My husband and I finally turned around and headed south, silent and stunned. We called my in-laws in Washington, D.C. and told them that we were safe, and we made sure that they were safe since my mother-in-law worked near the Pentagon at the time. On the way home, we stopped and bought supplies: giant jugs of water, nonperishable food, and a first aid kit. We didn’t know if there would be more attacks. We went home to turn on the television and wait for answers.
In the following days and months, out of the rubble and heartache, our country came together. We rallied around our flag; we were proud Americans. Can you imagine – every citizen feeling pride in this country? Out of this horrible tragedy came unity.
I did not go to school for the next three days. When I returned to New York, it was forever changed. We witnessed great acts of heroism and kindness. People went out of their way to lend a hand. Almost every New Yorker knew someone who had died. My family’s parish priest, Father Mychal Judge, was the chaplain for the NYFD. He ran into the North Tower to rescue trapped peopled and never came out. His death was the first recorded death after the attack. Several of my students lost their fathers and many of friends lost coworkers. The grief was palpable on the streets of New York. As Americans, we were steadfast in our determination to always remember and never forget. Twenty years later, the world has changed, and I am not sure unity is in the forefront of our national imagination. I hope it is. I pray it is because I will always remember where I was on September 11, 2001 and what I witnessed.
Every year except for the last COVID year, my husband and I spend a week each summer photographing Acadia National Park and the Down East Maine Coast. It is one of the most beautiful places in the world. The confluence of ocean and mountain is just breathtaking – climbing mountains with views of islands and sailboats dotting the water – bringing me such peace.
No matter what current state of tumult the world is in, Maine brings a clear sense of purpose and serenity. It is a solid reminder of how important the natural world is for one’s sense of well-being.
Little Long Pond
Clear Mountain pond
Floating lily pad
Opening to yellow centers
And sparkling sunlight
Mountains stand ont he horizon
Perfect summer day
The gulls hover
Over Seal Harbor
Surveying the boats,
Looking down into the water.
A blue heron steps gracefully
Among the seaweed covered rocks
His agile neck curves and darts
Piercing the water’s surface,
Ready for a fish dinner.
The seagulls circle and squawk
In the evening air
Salty and cool
Sweet sunset fishing.
Old yellow lobster pots
line the edge of the harbor,
Topped with piles of ropes
and brightly colored buoys.
No lobster is trapped inside
Now - just dented soda cans,
Blue rubber work gloves,
And bricks crusted with barnacles.
The lobster boats float
Ready to glide along the ocean
As lobstermen to set
and recover their traps
Pulling heavy ropes hand-over-hand
Seawater rushing and gushing out
Bearing shining treasure:
This week, I cannot write about education, travel, or art. This week I have to address world events. The disaster that is Afghanistan has weighed heavily on my mind and heart. When disturbed and rattled, I usually turn to poetry to make sense of my feelings. I thought and thought about how I could express the immense sadness I feel about our great country, our amazing America. Not our perfect America, but our promising, hopeful America.
Walt Whitman’s “I Hear America Singing” and Langston Hughes’ poem “I, Too!” reverberated in my head this week. Written in 1867, Whitman’s poem celebrated America’s work ethic. Then in 1926, Hughes’ demanded that Blacks be recognized as an essential part of America. With COVID, racial unrest, discrimination, limited rights and freedoms, rising inflation, the Afghan crisis – America is not singing now. Never, in my lifetime have I felt so frightened and so worried that our country is slipping away. But my strong belief is that America is worth saving, and we must find a way to heal and regain our strength and standing.
I Hear America Weeping
I hear America weeping,
No longer brave,
No longer beautiful,
No longer united.
Land of industrious immigrants,
Once strong and diligent,
Now at odds with each other:
Vaccinated, not vaccinated;
Black brown, red, yellow, white.
Great cities burning,
Flooded by drugs and violence,
Open to looting, and shootings.
America, I hang my head
Sorrowful and ashamed,
Who will heal America?
I hear America weeping,
No longer noble,
No longer resolute,
No longer the shining city
Upon the hill,
Beacon of hope.
Once the world leader,
Once the honorable democracy,
Now disgraced and embarrassed,
Open to terror, disorder, and chaos,
We have lost the world’s trust,
Abandoned our citizens and our allies.
We no longer stand for freedom.
America, I’m weeping,
The eyes of all people
Are truly upon us.
We are coming upon the last days of summer. For me, there is something bittersweet about that. I find myself holding on to the warm golden promise of summer. I don’t want it to end. No matter, how much I enjoy the fall, summer is a time that signals renewal and hope. There is so much I wanted to accomplish, so much joy I wanted to breathe in and make last. I don’t want that feeling to end. I need to find a way to sustain summer’s promise. I find it in the fields of wildflowers that I’ve encountered. I remember a poem I wrote many years ago. I keep reflecting on the power of that wild beauty. Something colorful and unexpected, something to surprise and comfort the faithful.
I come upon a field of wildflowers -
Poppies, cornflowers, Queen Anne’s Lace -
I walk across the field
Almost on tiptoe so as not to
Disturb a single petal.
I capture with my camera
Oranges and yellows,
The surprise of blue, the blush of pink.
As I travel the meadow.
I find a bunch of wild daisies -
“He loves me, he loves me not,”
I say to myself and shrug.
I wonder where that game began.
Each daisy petal holds a fortune,
Which way will it end?
I take hold of its bright face,
Count each white petal,
Lucky 13 – I take a chance.
He loves me, he loves me not -
He loves me, he loves me not -
Until the last petal is plucked:
He loves me!
I look down at the sad yellow center,
The white petals, like torn paper
Fall from my hand.
I came across a wonderful graphic book for young readers by Ricardo Liniers Siri called Wildflowers. It is an imaginative journey through island jungle by three heroic sisters. Liniers based the story on his three daughters’ creative play. It is a pure celebration of how creativity and sisterhood can save the day! Liniers notes that Tom Petty’s song, “Wildflowers,” served as an inspiration. I had not heard of Petty’s song before, so I took a listen and began to weep. What simple beauty!
You belong among the wildflowers
You belong somewhere close to me
Far away from your trouble and worries
You belong somewhere you feel free
You belong somewhere you feel free
What a powerful message for young readers! Historically, I have not been a huge fan of graphic books/novels, but that it not to say that I have not found pure genius in some of them. Graphic books for young readers seem to be a perfect way to motivate and engage children. The combination of picture and text support fluency and comprehension. I know our young K-3 readers gravitate to graphic books, as do our older elementary readers. The vivid descriptions that I enjoy as I read are encoded in a different way in graphic books. Here, the pictures serve as description and the readers must use their growing inferring skills. The rich visuals beckon children to question, wonder, and explore. Thank you, Liniers and Toon Books, for making me a fan!