Who we can be

Tuesdays at Two Writing Teachers!

"Go! Go! "Go, Mommy! Yay Mommy!"

A smile spreads across my face even though this running thing is darn hard. That sweet little voice. Best sound in the world.

I glance back over my shoulder and catch a swatch of neon pink over on a bench. For me to hear her from the other side of the track, she must be yelling with every ounce of love her little lungs can hold. And the next thing I know, she's on the track chasing me, her spindly legs churning, arms flailing with joy.

left pink blob: me, tiny gray & pink blob on the right: Sweetie <3

As much as I'd like to stop and see the cuteness, I'm here to run. To get strong. To clear my mind and build my muscles. To make myself proud. For me and for her.

So I swing my head back, let my eyes take in the blue sky, woods, and wetlands for a minute, and then set my sights on the next curve. I keep my legs pushing. I keep my feet pounding. Even especially when it's hard. Even especially when stopping sounds pretty tempting, especially in the heat. Even especially when my sneaky brain tries to make me doubt myself. (Nope, nice try, brain!) I can do this. I have run this distance before and I will do it again. I've come so far in the past year. I'm getting better and stronger all the time. Look at me! I furrow my eyebrows, feel the rhythm of my breath, and push my arms and legs and feet and brain to keep on.

Some corners, that sweet little voice is there to give me an extra boost. Sometimes, I look across the field and see her wiggly, bouncing, unfettered delight scampering around Husband at the other end of a straightaway.

And when I pound down toward the finish line for the last time, she's there, swooping her little arm across her body like she's pulling me along. "Go, go, go! Go, Mommy! Yay Mommy!"

<3

Two miles down again. Like always, everything slows down as I walk-float my cool-down lap. My ears seem to reopen to the sounds of birds chirping and my view sharpens: the leaves and branches of the trees seem etched extra clear against the vast sky. But this time, a bubbly bundle of energy scurries up to greet me, ready for a hug. I show her the finish line and we "race" 50m, open-mouthed cackling the whole way.

Too bad you can't hear the giggling!

She mimics my stretches, trying to figure out how to twist her little limbs without tumbling over.

And as we walk to the car, I get awarded my very first running prize: a clover flower she picked just for me!

I love sharing my life with her.
I love showing her who I am and helping her discover who she is.
Who I can be, and who she can be.
Who we can be:
strong,
proud,
brave,
joyful.

Writer! Runner?

Day 13 of 31 at TWT!

Some of you know that I've been trying to be a runner. Or, if I'm using the same logic that Stacey Shubitz taught us years ago about being writers, I suppose I AM a runner. If a writer is a person who writes (as opposed to a "real" published writer), then a runner is a person who runs, right? And I run three times a week. Not particularly fast, and not particularly far, but I run.

I'm not sure why I can so easily call myself a writer but find it so hard to try on the identity of "runner".

Partly, it feels like I should be good at something in order to own that title. I know I'm good at writing. I've gotten feedback throughout my life that I'm good at writing in a variety of situations, so I know other people also believe I'm good at writing. Therefore, I'm a writer.

I'm not particularly good at running, although I'm not overly bad either. (In fact, I've even gotten encouraging feedback that I run like a runner!) But with running, I feel like I need to achieve some sort of objective accomplishment to claim the title of "runner". If I can run an __-minute mile, I'll be a real runner. If I I can run a 5K someday, I'll be a real runner. Right? Yet, I don't feel like I need to publish a book to call myself a writer. I don't tell myself that because I "only" write blog posts, I'm not a writer. I don't believe there's some sort of objective number of posts per week that I have to write in order to be a writer.

I don't do that with any other title I claim. I don't feel like I'm not a reader if I don't read a certain amount of pages every week. No matter what, I'm a marching band girl, even though the most we've participated in the Alumni Band lately is a couple of parades.

Ultimately, I think the difference is that writing has felt like a piece of my heart for so long that it really is an integral part of who I am. I pretty much can't not write. As long as I can remember, I've kept a notepad by my bed for those times when I wake up in the middle of the night with a burning idea that I JUST HAVE TO WRITE, right then. I often decide to write "just a short post" and find myself coming up for air an hour and a half later, shaking myself back into the real world like I've been in some kind of haze. I've always been a writer.

This running thing is new. It doesn't pull at my heart like writing does. I certainly don't wake up in the middle of the night with a sudden urge to go running! Sometimes, I look ahead and think, "Ugh, I have to run again tomorrow." But even as I think that, I'll flex my muscles and feel a slight pulse, like my legs and arms are saying, "Let's go!" I'll feel a little tightness in my muscles or notice them getting stronger and more defined, and I'll stand up a little straighter and walk with a little more pride, wishing I was wearing a sign that said "I'M A RUNNER NOW!" so everyone could see the small differences I feel. I'll start to feel bogged down with the stress of school and life and my thoughts will shift to, "Oh good, I'm running tomorrow!" as I anticipate that glorious clear-headed floating feeling that's an added bonus to just plain running the knots out.

So I suppose it pulls at my heart, but differently. I have to make myself run... but I sometimes have to make myself write, too! That just means it's hard, not that it's not part of who I am. It's a newer part of who I am, but I watch students become readers and writers in my class every year, and I don't discount their new identities. If I feel moved to write poetry about it, it has absolutely taken hold in my heart.

I write. I am a writer. I run. I am a runner.

Rising strong anyway

Day 6 of 31 at TWT!

Last night I went running instead of blogging. On purpose. I did not write, on only the 5th day of the March Challenge. I chose not to write.

That's a big deal for me, the ultimate perfectionist. To make a conscious decision to not be perfect. I was perfect for the first 3 Marches I blogged. Then, when I was pregnant with my daughter, I was decidedly not perfect. I just couldn't be, for a variety of reasons, and that was hard. However, I did write 14 posts and ended up feeling proud of myself anyway, because it was much better than not trying at all.

The next March, when she was 10 months old, I somehow managed to be perfect again! I have no idea how I pulled that off! It seems so impossible that I actually didn't remember doing it until I looked at my archives today to see how many posts I'd written the past few Marches. Did I seriously blog for 31 days in a row with a baby while still teaching full-time? I apparently did, because there they all are! (Clearly, that whole year was such a whirlwind that I have no recollection of that accomplishment though, so...)

Then there was last year. We won't even talk about last year. 9 posts total, and none in March. (I also didn't remember that until I looked back at my archives... how did I not even manage to write a single post all month?! How on earth did I talk to my students about writing if I wasn't doing it myself? I mean, I know it was a rough time, but yikes!)

And here we are, in 2018. Could I have written a post last night and pushed myself to write every single day this March? Yes, but I chose balance instead.

To write last night, I would have had to miss out on:

• reading and responding to incredible student slices and sending them out for our staff to read
• spending quality time with Little Sweetie before dinner ("Mommy, can we read this book together? Mommy, can you play with me? Mommy, can we snuggle on the snuggle couch and watch Daniel Tiger? ")
• running (and therefore feeling like SuperGirl!)
• a glorious bubble bath after running
• texting my best friend to support him through a challenge, as he has for me so many times
• snuggling up to Husband to scroll through the photos of Sweetie that my mom posted while we were at work
• enough sleep (honestly, this still didn't even quite happen!)

Could I have written, and missed some of that? Yes. Would it have been worth it? No way.

One of my colleagues loves to say that being elite is being the best version of you. In a discussion after school today, he reminded a group of us again that if you are seriously doing everything you can to be your best, then you are working to be elite. It's not about outside markers of success or how you compare to other people. It's about doing your work relentlessly, to be incrementally better every day, not just in one part of your life, but in all the parts that matter most.

So I'm not perfect this year, but I am doing my absolute best. And that's actually better than when I was perfect.

Right now, my best is to make time for writing every day that I can do it without sacrificing something else essential. To avoid the trap of perfectionism and roll all of my "one little words" from the past few years together: to LOVE hard and stay STRONG, ANYWAY, and to RISE in all areas of my life.

Named and noticed

Tuesdays at Two Writing Teachers!

Head up. Shoulders back. I check my reflection in the tinted windows. Do I look like a runner? Come on, legs! Don't slow down.... Oh gosh. This is hard. Just keep going. Ok.... 1 lap. Focus on this 1 lap. Then another. 1 at a time... Head up. Breathe. Don't let form break down. Another window-reflection-check. Go, legs!... Oh gosh, look at that guy. He's like, a real runner. How many laps is he doing? I wish I could run like that... Last year, I was running a mile in under 9 minutes. When can I run a mile again? People must think I'm so out of shape, running these little bursts of laps with breaks, and my dumb fat belly... Nope. Stop. Look how strong I'm getting! I'm getting so much stronger!... Here we go. Eyes ahead. Head up. Come on.

Then, the sweet-settling cooldown walk: That was hard. Good-hard. Look at me. Sweat-pouring stretches and cool-gulping mouthfuls of water: Yep, just the right kind of good-hard for now. Bounding down the stairs: Way better than sitting at home. Adjusting the seat and pinning the right weight into place: I'm going to get there. Just keep pushing. Furrowed brows, steady weights swinging: Just keep going. Just a little more. Better every day.

"Are you a trained runner?" This gray-haired man's admiring tone jerks my brain out of its workout-sharp, so-clear-it's-almost-empty focus-void.

"Umm?" My eyes briefly dart around to see if he's talking to someone else. "No? Not really?" I ran middle-school track for two years, very slowly, awkwardly, and poorly? I have never excelled at anything athletic in my life, except marching band? I'm just a band girl?  

Clearly, my stammering, startled confusion takes him aback. "I'm not trying to be smart or anything, really! I was just watching how smooth you were running, and I thought, 'Wow, she has to be a trained runner!' You're one of the smoothest runners I've seen around here!"

"Oh! Wow! Um, thanks! I mean, my dad was a runner, and I kind of learned from him. I've been trying really hard! Thank you!"

And just like that, the remaining tendrils of doubt and discouragement release their hold on me. He noticed me, and thought I was doing a good job? He noticed so much that he had to come up and say something, when he doesn't even know me at all? He thinks I'm a real runner?! I feel like I just found out that I'm actually a superhero! 

I guess I could have told him that I was in the OSU Marching Band for 5 years, and that helped me develop an acute awareness of my posture and movements, coupled with the determination to relentlessly analyze my performance and find ways to improve. I could have told him that the R-Factor conversations my favorite new colleague has brought to our school have reinforced that old drive and analysis while also challenging me to examine my focus and self-talk to develop a more positive growth mindset.

Trained runner? No. Trained marcher and thinker? Definitely.

I could have also told him that I only started running seriously a year and a half ago, and that since then I've had to stop completely and start over, twice, due to the hardest personal tragedies I have ever gone through, within less than a year. I could have told him that the past three years have been the most challenging of my life, for way too many different reasons, and that even though the simple difficulty of running gives me power and clarity, I'm also tempted to quit almost every week.

"Runner?" Not if you mean a competitive athlete who's been running for years, which is what I'm tempted to think it means. Runner, as in a person who runs, just like a writer is a person who writes? Yeah, but it takes some work to make myself believe it.

But I didn't tell him any of that. I just smiled and savored his words all evening. And three days later, when I ran again. And every time I've run, over the past three weeks, ever since. I run, and now my brain says: Smooth! I look like a trained runner! Eyes ahead. Head up. Strong legs. Keep it up, Smooth Runner. 

Identity is powerful. Feedback is powerful. Specific, timely feedback that builds an identity is life-changing. And when it's a surprise, it goes straight to your heart with even more force.

How much better would our classrooms, our schools, our world be if we all acted a little more like random rec center guy? If we slowed down enough to notice each other? To figure out what's special and point it out? To honor what someone else is striving for by naming it? Let's search for opportunities to say, "Hey, I noticed your hard work. It was awesome because (specific observation). It made you look like a real (identity construct)."

This is what we all need to RISE.

Head up. Keep going. Better every day. 

My Brooks make me feel like a real runner, too! <3

Strong

Tuesday writing fun at Two Writing Teachers!

Thin white lines beckon, stretching out and curving

away 

                                                          and back again

across the expanse of sunset-red-orange rubber.

My feet grip the ground with extra excitement.

My legs tense in anticipation. 

Chin up. Eyes forward. Numbers. Lines. Breathe. Push.

Go.

Shoes springing

pound pound

muscles reaching

pound pound

shoulders back

pound pound

mind clear

pound pound

shadows stretch

pound pound

soaring through 

pound pound

cool air

pound pound

breathe breathe breathe breathe.

In the distance, 

getting larger 

and then disappearing

over my shoulder, different masterpieces:

scattered, brilliant blazes of orange, red, yellow

brilliant against a backdrop of greener, more patient friends

all reaching toward a cerulean sky so clear

if I could jump hard enough, I could dive 

right up

and in.

heart pumping 

pound pound

almost there

pound pound

lines and numbers getting closer

pound pound

I can do it

pound pound

keep pushing

pound pound

breathe breathe breathe breathe.

Tensing muscles, filling lungs, extra spring, new life:

Everything I've got.

Kick it.

Feet fly over the numbers.

Gulping air

arms up

walking legs stretch, satisfied.

Nothing left, but everything gained.

Bright eyes, clear mind, energy flowing.

Alive. Strong.

It's been too long.