Sometimes a blur means more because it’s that space between nothing that means everything.
Sometimes a blur means more because it’s that space between nothing that means everything.
I can finally hear the trees speaking to me again. It’s been a while.
After a school year that seemed relentlessly long, there’s nothing I’d hate more than to talk about this school year. I don’t want to give any advice about reading, questions types, testing, and, please, don’t ask about writing, in particular, essays.
I’m looking up.
I’m disconnecting from what supposedly defines me. Not from my phone, computer, or TV, although that’s some of it, not from electricity in any way, but I’m disconnecting from school.
So I’m going to give myself a break from thinking about reading assignments, reading comprehension, required reading, homework, grading, everything in connection with traditional, structured, life-draining education.
What a relief!
I woke up last week and it was 6 a.m. Normally I’m up at 5:30 getting ready to take my daughter to school then returning to get ready for teaching and take my son to school.
But I didn’t have to, so I looked at the time and went back to sleep.
After I woke and became instinctively lazier, I took a walk.
I noticed the trees and how many brilliant flowers were blooming. I’m physically looking up, up, seeing the branches sway and the petals drop. My neck pain is at a minimum because I’m not hunching over a computer or over stacks of papers.
The trees spoke to me. They waved and winked as I approached them. Orange petals floated over my pathway, welcoming me to life, the best kind of life.
My heart opened.
Now when I look around me, I see my children relaxed, smiling more, looking healthier and happier than, well, than in the last several months.
I see my house, messy, but home just the same.
I breathe a whole lot slower, deeper, calmer.
My feet don’t hurt.
No students to reprimand. No screeching noises. No nothing.
I see me.
Everywhere you turn, you hear a buzzing sound–that high-pitched synchronicity peeling through your eardrum deep into the dead of night.
Even when there’s nothing really there.
I had planned to begin this blog post by focusing solely on education because I’m trying so hard to stick to the just to that topic of which I’ve dedicated my last 10 years of life to, but I just can’t do it.
See, I live in Florida, in particular Miami.
Miami is all over the news along with the earthquake in Italy and the campaign for the presidency.
In Miami, however, the Zika virus has dominated the attention of everyone.
Walking the campus on the first day of school, I saw students wearing long sleeves and smelling like Off. I just smiled and asked, “How are you today?”
Normally, I’d get an “OK” or a “Really tired” or even a “Super happy” every once in a while. But, this time, I just got “Hot.”
I felt their pain as a parent and a teacher. I knew somewhere my own children reeked of Off, so I just rolled my eyes at myself.
What is Zika?
The virus delivers flu-like symptoms, lots of achiness, and a rash. Pregnant women seem to be the worst victims because of the possible effects on the fetus.
According to the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention, people don’t usually get sick enough to even go to the hospital.
But, everyone here has already begun to panic. I received several texts telling me to use the strongest repellent possible and every time I look on Facebook, someone’s posting something about Zika. They really love giant, digitally enhanced photos of the mosquitoes with rounded, red bellies.
Of course, though, it’s the news that always sends us into a frenzy—talking, stressing, watching, then spraying ourselves with dangerous chemicals, rarely leaving the house, but when we do we smell like mosquito spray and we’re sweating in our long-sleeve shirts and pants.
Then, as a parent, we start to worry about our children.
We contemplate insane questions such as Should I send them to school? Should I demand that they don’t participate in P.E.? Should I send them with a can of bug spray so they can re-apply it like sunscreen? Should I keep them from playing sports?
An even more pressing question for many parents especially in Miami might be Should I have my child switch schools to an area deemed “less contaminated”?
We begin obsessing, only to find that we all could be infected with Zika because we all might not even show signs of the virus let alone be tested for it.
And, we all know that’s the truth down deep inside, behind our collective, paranoid mindset and the media’s ability to control that.
We should take control of our situation and dismiss the rest of the jolts of information once we know what we need to know. At least, that’s what I plan to do.
Out of all the news reports and speculation on the virus, I just read a post that reveals the insanity we are experiencing around the world and over here in Miami.
The post Propaganda Machine Takes Aim at Zika Virus compares the media coverage and viewer reaction to the bird flu and Ebola. It also breaks down the facts into digestible chunks so you understand what’s really going on as opposed to panicking.
I consider myself a fairly logical person, but I’m emotional when it comes to my children, just like most parents. That’s why it’s so important to remember that monsters live mostly in our heads.
Written by Lisa Chesser
When I wrote about how my grandmother had suffered through Alzheimer’s disease and my struggle with losing her both mentally and physically, the response from fellow bloggers warmed my soul almost as if they were sitting right next to me allowing me to rest my head on their shoulders.
Blogging, changed my life because the connections I made became even more meaningful than some long-time friendships and brought other people with similar depth and interests closer to me.
When I write, I connect to a place hidden from the me who I think I am or the me who I want to be or the me who everyone wants me to be. I may start with an idea or a purpose, but within a minute or so, I find the me who I really am and sometimes that secret me connects to another hidden being, someone I never knew existed.
I know other bloggers feel the same.
When I first started blogging, it was here at WordPress. I really knew nothing else. I just knew that I wanted to write and connect with other writers. I’d been busy teaching after being a full-time mom and my relationships with the working world and friendships in general felt stunted and, well, disconnected.
So when I read through all different kinds of blogs, I found myself laughing, nodding, and often-enough crying. So I thought about the idea of creating my own blog and just knew that I had to open up as well.
Four years ago, I was Freshly Pressed with a post about my children’s “Refrigerator Art” Refrigerator Art Changed My Life and the connections I made have lasted to this day. Even the talented Cheri Lucas Rowland liked my post, and here I am writing inspired by one of her discover challenges.
The same people who “liked” and “commented” on that post also comforted me when I wrote about struggles with Scoliosis Exercising My Scoliosis Demons and the loss of my grandmother .
At various times over the years, life became so overwhelming at certain points that I considered and reconsidered leaving WordPress behind. Being a teacher and a mother challenges the best of us, let alone being married and attempting to continue writing and educating yourself. Then throw into the mix health concerns and the death of someone who meant the world to you.
But, it was and is the connections I’ve experienced here that have kept and do keep me blogging. They keep me brave, smart, bold, and loved.
Here’s to laughter.
Plus, my sister and some other really awesome comedians along with a determined filmmaker are working night and day to make this happen.
Check it out and become a part of it before it ends.
People used to ask me, “What do you do?”
I’d say, “I’m a Publications Specialist.” Before that I’d say, “I’m an editor, writer, graphic artist, or copy editor.” They’d nod and smile in approval and ask more questions about it. I felt respected.
Now, when people ask that question, I say, “I’m a teacher.” Their eyes pop open, sometimes there’s a gasp or a grunt or even a hiss with a dramatic “Ouch” at the end. I was startled that at first. I stopped wanting to answer people. I avoided the question when we were meeting people. Sometimes I even told my husband that I would just say I’m a writer and editor because I still am so I’m not lying or anything. I’d just leave out what I do the majority of the time throughout the year.
But, I couldn’t avoid it completely. So as I started answering that question more and more, I realized people just felt sorry for me when I said I was a teacher and it didn’t have to be bad. So, I’d laugh and grunt with them. I’d agree and then unload my frustrations on them. It felt kind of good considering that I needed counseling after all the rough weeks of teaching.
However, the underlying problem of telling people that I am a teacher never seemed to change.
There’s a tangible lack of respect for teachers. We are jokes. We are servants. We are babysitters. We can’t do anything else. We are burps in a person’s life that they’d like to forget about.
Or, we are honored for being so special that we work for scraps thrown from the dinner table and educate the children who will someday rule over all of us and either save or destroy the world. This latter “honored” reaction, I’ve found, happens a lot less than the other negative ones.
Somewhere, far, far away
According to an article in The Guardian, How the job of teachers compares around the world, there’s respect for Chinese teachers and teachers in Finland receive the monetary rewards that make teaching worthwhile and transform it into a respected, even sought-after profession.
So, yes, asking “Does money matter to teachers?” is a loaded question, I know. Many teachers would say, “Sit down and let’s talk for at least two weeks about why teachers absolutely need to be paid more.” Still others would say, “It’s not about the money.”
Despite either reaction, let’s just say this, teachers deserve more money based on the fact that they work endless hours and hold the world’s future in their hands. And, of course, I’m talking about the good ones. Those who look like they’ve been through WW III after the first week of school and lug stacks of papers back and forth from the school to their homes.
There was a video I watched about a year ago about applying to a demanding job.
People who were applying for jobs were asked by their potential employers to do what moms do without knowing that it was actually a list of tasks that every mom does. And, we all know moms don’t get paid for what they do. The people interviewing for the jobs were horrified and immediately rejected the jobs. In the end, when they were told that they were really applying for the job that all moms do, their faces changed to a knowing, a deep appreciation, a realization that only mothers do something so insanely valuable for no pay whatsoever.
I would argue that good teachers come close to that idea. Is it the same? Absolutely not, just the same idea.
To say we as teachers don’t work for the money is quite true. To say we shouldn’t demand more pay is not fair and ridiculous.
We don’t work for the money because we’re paid nothing compared to the amount of hours we put into it. We grade stacks of papers at home throughout the week—if we are good teachers. We chase students around about homework, classwork, quizzes, and tests. We counsel them when they make mistakes and think they can’t go on. We care for them like they’re our own children. Then, we send them home to hopefully do homework, study, and sleep. We start over the next day even if we know they stayed up late playing video games and didn’t do homework.
Given that we are a world that runs on money, teachers need it not only to survive but to hope for more, to fuel their own fire if they’re giving so much of their energies to teaching.
It’s a profession with very raw, concrete value; yet, it’s treated as a volunteer opportunity offering little respect. Why would anyone with an ounce of respect want to teach or even continue to teach then?
We wouldn’t. In fact, any teacher worth their salt and willing to be honest will tell you that he or she contemplated leaving more than once. Many teachers make other plans and go as far as to pack their materials, but they remember their students, their lessons, the challenges that made them better human beings, and they think of the future without dedicated teachers.
We don’t do it for the money, but that’s precisely why teachers, good, hardworking, dedicated teachers, should be paid as much as any professional and respected equally or even more.
What’s interesting though, is that as a writer, editor, graphic artist, and publications specialist, I started out getting paid significantly less than an average public school teacher yet I got a whole lot more respect.
At the end of the first week back to school in Florida, I stood in a line with moms beaten, worried, and tired. We were from everywhere in Miami. We wore business clothes, jeans, and sweatpants.
The “perfect” mom with the straight, red hair, black V-neck sweater, and pencil skirt raised her eyebrows as the Latina mom in sweatpants rolled her eyes and said, “I finally understand my mom. I used to be so embarrassed when she’d hand out coupons at the counter and now I’m trying to figure out how I’m gonna pay for all this.”
She raised her eyes to the sky as if to say, “Save me! Help me.”
I pulled the plug from my ear, the earphone muffling the depressing music on the speakers at CVS. “I know. I feel the same,” I said, desperately reaching out to her.
The redhead rolled her eyes again. “It’s crazy. They kill us.”
I looked into their eyes and the week of troubles emptied from my soul. The week of upset, anger, resentment, and fighting left me because I wasn’t alone. I was with women unlike me and just like me.
We knew pain. The kind of pain religious leaders just won’t ever understand.
The kind of pain kids frown at.
The kind of pain only mothers know.
And, my heart emptied.
In those few moments, no one could’ve predicted that my heart would empty. No religious mantra could fix me. But, right there, with women I didn’t even know, my heart emptied.
And, I was free.
Find those moments that free you and recognize them as religious.
They belong to you.
Digging graves, unconsciously, just digging.
They morph into something scientific, to be dissected or picked apart. Between disillusionment and the idea that you needed to be more than what you should be or than what you really wanted.
You don’t really dig graves. You dream, like every single one of us.
It’s what we do.
There’s an echo in it. There’s a peace in it. It’s more real than reality.
So, when I woke one day to find myself digging my own grave.
I remembered my dream.
It had nothing to do with graves. It had everything to do with love and happiness.
There were diagonals, horizontal, spirals, eyes and lips scattered around a field of purple crayon with push pins and buttons chuckling at the silly behavior surrounding the onlooking scrutiny.
Admidst the blur of sanity came a gaffaw of irony.
Then, we remember.
It’s always a little late.
But, sometimes. We remember the most important part.
when you dream,
Just like the man who dreamt that graves should be dug. He remembered love and reminded the mother to stay close.
Then, he remembered the graves.
There was one less.
Relationships grow, crumble, fade, part, and regenerate. It’s when they’re quiet that you know you’ve done something right. It’s the kind of quiet where neither one of you needs to talk. You don’t need to ogle each other like teenagers or stare lovingly into each other’s eyes like you desperately can’t live without the other person.
You just move quietly together allowing the other to be, to exist without you, with you, it really doesn’t matter.
My husband and I have had these moments and I’ve thought, well, we’ve finally arrived. We’ve made it. We really just don’t need to talk.
We can just float together.
But, he doesn’t see it that way. He wants to talk, as if there’s something wrong with me for not joining in the sea of incessant chatter that bulks up the world around us. I know it’s not all just him. I know that between his coworkers burping on about how people should “talk” and the mounds of general media telling us we need to talk more, he’s bound to agree with them.
Couples must communicate, yes. I do this and that’s when he decides that he’s too busy to talk, which is completely different from what I’m talking about here.
On vacation, he pointed out an older couple who read the newspaper, looked up to check a noise or just enjoy their whereabouts, and ate quietly together, barely talking. He scoffed sarcastically, “You think that’ll be us someday?”
I thought, I hope so.
He said, “They haven’t said a word to each other,” and he said this bitterly. I then realized he needed to talk right now so that he knows that I love him so I tried. I still try. I try to do a lot of listening more than anything. It’s rough because I prefer silence. He doesn’t understand it but he does know how I feel. At least I think he does.
So much of my life consists of talking that I cherish the quiet space between it all. I literally gulp, choking up when I hear the blowing wind against the palms of trees.
Tears build, fall, and drop when I see clouds swirl and that beat that blends with the flap of a bird’s wings. Silence seems to slip through my fingers like water running through the tap. So when I’m wrapped in it, when it surrounds me, I warm myself with it.
It’s not the same as people who stare at the glare of their smart phones and just ignore each other.
Two people appreciating silence seals their bond as if sitting together in a temple or a church. Only, there’s nothing to worship or think about because you’re already there…in heaven.
There’s that breathing, the heavy kind. The kind that you hear right before you fade into each other.
Written by Lisa Chesser
The great part about being a parent is always the intensity with which kids force me to have fun. They bend my perception of myself backwards to a time when I didn’t know I wasn’t supposed to stand like that or say those things.
So, here’s what happens when you spend summer with kids.
1. You learn the meaning of freedom. You swim!
Kids see water and jump in. No wondering if their thighs are too fat or if the water’s too cold. They go for it. So, for those of you bent on hibernating, remember, this is summer so swim.
This is me documenting it via Vine…all because of the Weekly Writing Challenge. Thanks for the spark.
2. You make movies.
They don’t just watch movies, they make them. My sister taught them how to think like filmmakers and this is one of their awesome creations with her help.
3. You eat ice cream and you’re messy about it.
Everyone was being so neat and nice, so polite. But, my son indulged in his cotton candy ice cream cone and made a mess. I did have to stop him before he got out of control.
4. You build a Lego Ship.
In lieu of homework, mine negotiated a challenge, “We’ll build this Lego ship.” So, they conveniently stretched the construction period out to four days long, but the results speak volumes.
5. You day dream.
Tilt your head back. Close your eyes or stare off at something in the room or at the ceiling then let your mind wonder to those places we rarely speak of because we’re too busy going from here to there or trying to meet a deadline.
6. You draw or doodle.
Sketching your favorite cartoon or TV character when you should be focusing on work keeps you relaxed and sometimes refocuses you if you’re struggling to finish writing. If you’re listening to someone who’s thoroughly boring, then doodle.
7. You dance.
Dance. Wiggle. Move. And do it often. Smiles follow.
8. You watch Nacho Libre, a lot.
Nacho Libre starring Jack Black became my son’s obsession. Thank God it was a funny one. Interpreted, this one means find a movie you really like, that makes you so happy you want to see it over and over again and do just that.
9. You’re gross.
Pick your nose and fart if you feel like it. Just promise, don’t be ashamed. Kids never are—at least not during summertime.
10. You sleep, a lot.
Go to bed late. Sleep until noon. Need I say more?
For a double whammy, I’ll use this time to say that I’m so proud of them. Without even knowing it, they’ve managed to give me amazing moments to write about and give you a laugh or two–thank you to the Daily Post Challenge.
and takes pictures, and travels, and...
Love is ever-present within our own Being but we might not feel it until we live in the Now. "Love it Now" was created to share ideas about loving and being present in the here and now. Enjoy!
Welcome to the Lunacy Community
Where Comic Books and Politics Meet
Over 100 comic artists present positive political actions anyone can take.
Politics, things that make you think, and recreational breaks
This blog is an ongoing gallery of artwork created by Paul Ayres
A Writer's Workshop
lifestyle in Dallas & Collin counties
Women's Wear Daily brings you breaking news about the fashion industry, designers, celebrity trend setters, and extensive coverage of fashion week.
Smart, fearless journalism
Film Quarterly offers serious film lovers in-depth articles, reviews, and interviews that examine all aspects of film history, film theory, and the impact of film, video, and television on culture and society.
The Voice of Creative Independence
"What you see depends on where you sit...or where you fly"
Adventures in motherhood, fitness, youth hockey & corporate America
The Courage To Shift is my Life Coach business that focuses on moving the client from victim, to VICTOR, regardless of their personal goals! Is there anything in life that you would like more of?
The modest successor to the "Floating Life" blogs
A daily selection of the best content published on WordPress, collected for you by humans who love to read.
Sharing a literary journey
Because poetry. And petals.
Running from Life with a Wine at a time
Descriptive writing on love, life, landscape, laughter and lodges!
an online journal of religion and politics
Letters from a Mother with Mental Illness
About the book and exerpts from the book THE (HE)ART TO BE HAPPY from Andreas Antero Ahrens
Musings by Dermott Hayes, a writer
Writing exploits and motherly adventures of Valerie Brown, Author
Three-Time United States Olympian | Women's Rowing
Helping You Navigate Next-Gen Ed Reform from the Great State of Maine
Motivate. Elevate. Laugh. Live Positively...
sharing my love for little ones, literacy, and learning
Spreading the craziness, one smile at a time
Living LIfe Single, Sassy, and Joyfully!
'Life never stops. Your time here is limited make it count. People won't remember you for what you owned, but they will remember your personality and values. Make your mark on the world. Start creating the person you want to be today because tomorrow could be to late. Who knows how long each one of us have left. Embrace all aspects of your life.' -Sebestien LaBrake
Work Less // Play More // Be Free
Maintained by the University of Central Florida MFA Program
Because children enjoy using their minds
a pilgrimage of the heart
As the seasons change, so do I
Educating women business owners and entrepreneurs worldwide on how to go global.
Original cartoon illustrations and Teaching Resources!
Because every child deserves a quality education
hacking my way through education and technology.
A website about education and academic success