kiddos

Sometimes I forget that my students are just six years old.
Me, age 5 and 7 months:
Today I remembered. We had an assembly with African dance and music at school. As the awesome West African dancers called students up to dance with them, I saw how tiny mine were compared to the 4th graders, the 6th graders. I thought to myself, "They're just kids, Ellen." I try to treat them like real people, explain things at their level without talking down to them. But at the end of the day, they are only six (or seven) years old. They don't know what a problem like this means:
4
-1
3

They tell funny stories when they aren't supposed to about how one time they had a campfire, but it wasn't cold cause it was summer and it was fun and their friend Annie was there. They have no point and are simply memories. They all say eww if someone's body makes an interesting noise, chew on pencils and erasers, and touch everything that's on their desk when they aren't supposed to. They stare out the window and wonder aloud what those kids on the playground are doing mid-math time. When I walk in the room, I have a student who will immediately raise her hand and look at me until I pass by to hear her judgment on what I am wearing that day. "You look nice today," she whispers.
They forget my name and refer to me as "Miss.... ummm..." or my personal favorite "um, Missus, can you help me?"

On Monday, my dear first graders were not at school. We had teacher training. I was shocked to see how quickly I had a pen in my mouth and was fidgeting with all the things on my table, wondering what the people in the hall were doing, hoping I could go use the restroom to get up and not be bored.

We are not that different from first graders. We just know the expectations now and cover it up better. But not all my learning experiences have been like sitting in that room on Monday. No, no. If they had all been like that, I would not have gone to college. I think the most powerful learning doesn't feel like learning at all. You are spellbound, captivated by wonder. We've all had a teacher that made something come alive, from World War II to PreCalc, French I to human anatomy.

How can we tap into that more often? I wondered as I sat in teacher training, "How in the world can a teacher teaching teachers about teaching be uninteresting?! Shouldn't there be enough general knowledge in this room about what creates good learning?"

I still don't really understand. But here's a quote from Henry Barnes, a teacher with the Waldorf schools:

"When children (I'd say "humans") relate what they learn to their own experience, they are interested and alive, and what they learn becomes their own."

the discipline of living in one place

Spain in January. Costa Ballena (Whale Coast. Don't be fooled. There are no whales)
As summer stickiness turns into frost on my windshield in the mornings, I realize that this is the first time since 2005 that I have experienced autumn in Kansas City. Already wearing my Spanish winter apparel, I remember that we've still got 4-5 months of colder weather in front of us. I remember how nice it was to stroll along the beach in January.

I rabbit trail (something I've learned to control in conversation, but not in my own thoughts), dreaming about life in Argentina, France, Chile. I've browsed scholarships to do research in those places. Then I read about my friends who've moved to Spain. I accutely felt and feel their stress as they search for apartments, churches, friends. I do not envy having to relearn how to use a washer, negotiating customs, starting a new job in a place where you have no mental map of society.

In many ways, living in KC is a luxury. It's glorious to be able to stroll down the streets of childhood, to know that Antioch is one street west of Metcalf, to innately understand the culture of this place. Going to Brookside gives me a deep sense of being home.

Nonetheless, there is something about traveling, about experiencing a new place that I love. I love walking around the city streets and sensing out the mood of the city. Each place I've visited has it's own feel, and if pressed, I could probably describe them, from Tangiers to Paris, from Salt Lake City to Seville. I have not left KC since the first weekend in August. (well, I guess pilgrimage and Lawrence. Lawrence doesn't count does it?) However, that's the longest stint of me being in one place since... 2008. I traced back that far and I'm not sure that's even accurate.

Living in one place, even a place as big and diverse as KC (that's no joke), does take some discipline after traveling so much. I am not imagining new destinations or planning and packing. I LOVE not packing so much. *sigh of relief*

Home is where I am. Welcome home.

So many thoughts and so little organization...

Today I walked Chelsea* to the kindergarten bathroom. They were repairing the first grade bathrooms. Afterwards, she got a drink from the short kindergarten drinking fountain. (Seriously, I could probably sit "criss-cross applesauce" on the floor and drink from it.) She exclaimed, "Why is it so short now? It was taller when I was in kindergarten!"

Classic, textbook dev. psych. love it.

It's interesting how days start to turn into weeks and months when your life is somewhat stable. In retrospect, one of the reasons Spain was so exhausting is that I never had monotony. This may sound romantic and glorious, but part our brain loves autonomization. (sp?)

I'm listening to Silvio Rodriguez right now, a South American musician who masterfully disguised critiques of colonization and corrupt Latin American governments behind the most beautiful love songs I've ever heard. It makes me wonder how I'd view life if my childhood would have been filled with violence. I'd probably have a very different view of the world. What that has to do with the first story, I have no idea. Go figure. I feel a little bit like my brain is trying to think about many things and in order to tell you about them all, I'd have to sit down and word vomit. And I don't feel like doing that when I could be taking the trash out and reading a book.

this is why I am not a good blogger when i am not in a foreign land.

*Name changed, as usual.

ruminating.

there's not really anyone who can live my life for me.
interfaith work is really rich.
it's really easy to not dive into something. it's much easier to just sit around on your keister all day and entertain yourself with the idea that the right combination of eating, exercising, and sleeping will bring you true contentment.
i want something. i'm just not sure what it is...
i have a habit of waiting for life to start. and it's already happening!!
for a long time, i thought that my story was going to be found in a building at 42nd and genessee. Nope. i'm already living it.
if i could describe myself with a really large venn diagram, there's a part of me that wants to study theology, a part of me that wants to run an ultramarathon, a part of me that wants to do a st. francis (in many ways), a part of me that wants to travel all over the world - and hike machu picchu!, a part that just wants to be settled, and part that wants to sit around and eat ice cream out of the container while i mindlessly cruise the web. (that one's my least favorite).
i'm not really sure what that means.
i pray that God would connect the dots and patch me together.

My dad is a sandwich

I took a delightful walk this evening with my parents. It turns out that eating right can really change your level of energy. I was literally running in circles around them, full of joy about life, the sunset, and the fact that I can run.

As is often the case when I combine joy and a lot of Spanish exposure in a day, I was singing rapid, out-of-breath Juanes as I twirled around my parents. In a tone meant to be funny, my dad said, "I'm the sandwich generation. My parents jabbered away in Czech all the time and I never had any clue what they were saying. And now my daughter is chattering away in Spanish, and I'm clueless again."

I wanted to laugh, but the laugh caught in my chest as I realized how profoundly true his statement was.

Today or I heart NY

Nine years ago
I was in Ms. Boe's English class.
They pulled her out of the room.
We went to Assembly
with rumors of car accidents and tragedy flying.
But not flying as big as what hit New York..

And since this has happened...
We MUST work towards reconciliation. Reach out.

Psalm 120

A song of ascents.

¹ I call on the LORD in my distress,
and he answers me.

² Save me, LORD,
from lying lips
and from deceitful tongues.

³ What will he do to you,
and what more besides,
you deceitful tongue?

⁴ He will punish you with a warrior's sharp arrows,
with burning coals of the broom bush.

⁵ Woe to me that I dwell in Meshek,
that I live among the tents of Kedar!

⁶ Too long have I lived
among those who hate peace.

⁷ I am for peace;
but when I speak, they are for war.

not expecting a lot of commets here...

españa, t exo d menos.

Kansas city, te quiero, pero echo de menos a españa. más que nada, echo de menos a la gente, pero también echo de menos mi castello, mi andalú, mi bici española MUY incomoda, la ceta, mi alumnado, los puestos de sol, y esa idea de que mi vida era una aventura total, on the whim of fate.

kansas city, te necesito. Me estableces, me das vida, me llevas a mi misma (never did understand if that was mí mismo, mí misma, mi misma, mi mismo, mí... oh well, it gets the point across).

inglés, eres la lengua de mi corazón, pero llevo el español muy cercita también.

Vida, tengo un amigo italiano. escribió en su Facebook "l'opposto di amare è rinunciare" (y aparte del hecho de que me encanta buscar sus statuses en google translate) me encanta lo que dice "the opposite of love is to give up"
Pero una amiga suya le escribió "ne avevamo parlato una volta.. l'opposto dell'amore è la paura." y significa "the opposite of love is fear" Y esto me lo creo mucho.

Otra frase italiana... "Dios non allontana" Dios no aleja. Me encanta esta frase también porque me amigo italiano me lo tradució con su mano. Dios no nos... empuja más lejos. Dios nos acerca. Los que nos alejamos son nosotros, es el trayecto de la vida. viniendo y yendo como la marea

¿te has dado cuenta una vez de cuanto has cambiado? Y no en mucho tiempo tampoco.
Pienso en como era hace dos años, hace tres años, hace cuatro. es increíble.

Esta mañana, hacía centering prayer, y pensaba de una idea que se ha enterrado dentro de mí. Es la idea que vivimos una narrativa. Life as story. Mi vida tiene que ser una historia, un cuento, porque es increíble. Quiero que Dios siga escribiéndome, que mi vida mueva hacia unos puntos culminantes, hacia unos propósitos.

¿Os cuento un secreto? Quiero casarme con un español. Pero dentro de este deseo es más un deseo de casarme con el español. (Aunque tampoco me vendría mal casarme con un español... tall, dark, handsome. jajajajaja. y, por favor, que hable claramente para que le entienda!)