Two weeks ago, I was teaching my Monday 2nd graders about the African American spiritual. We talked about the form and meaning of “Free At Last,” and then we wrote a class ‘song’ about our dreams—in spiritual form.
Somewhere along the way, one of my students associated “Free At Last” to Harriet Tubman. He asked something about Tubman and the underground railroad and I told him that if he reminded me when he came to music today then I would play his class a recording of a poem about Harriet Tubman.
Sure enough, shortly after my 2nd grade class came into my room this afternoon, I found myself being reminded that I was supposed to play them a poem about Harriet Tubman. Had I remembered anything about the conversation that had promised a poem presentation? Nope. But did I play his class the poem anyway? Yep. I figured that if a second grader reminded me of something two weeks later, then it must be important to him. So we listened to the poem. And the class liked it. And then we moved on. Away from the spiritual. To Africa. Because 2nd grade has been in Africa in art class for the past couple of weeks, and I wanted to take them there, too.
So we went to South Africa. We watched an elephant drink from a watering hole via live camera feed from South Africa and we found South Africa on the map. We followed the music for the Bantu lullaby “Abiyoyo.” We listened to a folk tale about Abiyoyo. We discussed the characters and plot and setting of the story, and the kids sang the words of the song in their Harnett County Bantu dialects, and we had a really good class.
“Wait. So Harriet Tubman was from Africa?” I heard the above-mentioned student ask as we were preparing to leave class.
“No, sweetheart,” I chuckled, shaking my head, and thinking, ‘Oops. This is what happens when I try to throw something into the lesson really quick.’ “Harriet Tubman was from America. We finished in America and moved to South Africa.”
“Oh,” he said, smiling. “We were just moving so fast!”
I smiled back at him and deep within my heart, and I said a silent prayer of thanksgiving for simple, humorous moments like this that add light to my days.
Monday, January 26, 2015
Thursday, January 22, 2015
Wicked To The Fifth
I saw Wicked for the first time in New York City. Ten years ago this summer, a couple of friends and I took a road trip up north and made Broadway one of our stops. We sat in the balcony for the show. My two friends sat together a couple of rows in front of me, and I sat, stage center, beside a large, square pole. At first, I was a bit lonely beside the pole, but as the show progressed, I became glad for the privacy—because I wore my emotions on my sleeve—and my sleeve stayed wet from wiping away the tears that flowed as I watched.
After another friend had introduced me to Wicked the summer before, I’d made it my goal to see what was becoming one of the most popular shows on Broadway. I bought the soundtrack and did my best to piece together the story-line, but the soundtrack producers did a wonderful job leaving out key pieces of information that are crucial for fully understanding the story. Armed with a familiarity of the music and a deep curiosity about the plot-line, I greeted the show with an open-ignorance that can only be experienced once. With no preconceived notion as to how things “should be” or “should have been,” I watched in amazement as the lights, orchestra, voices, costumes, choreography, and visual effects melded together seamlessly in an extraordinarily powerful performance.
I suppose that seeing a show for the first time becomes the standard by which every other viewing is measured. If the first show was great, then all other shows will pale in comparison. If the first show was awful, then all other shows will be valued for their improvements. My first time seeing Wicked was great. I guess it’s no wonder, then, that I don’t remember much about the 2nd, 3rd, and 4th times that I saw the show—just who I was with (three friends; mom and sister; one friend), where we were (Greenville; Durham; Charlotte), and the circumstances surrounding our attending the show (a birthday; Mother’s Day; a needed break from the grief of care-giving).
Tuesday night’s performance was different. First of all, my seeing Wicked that night was a gift. B sacrificed her opportunity to see the show because she knew how much I’d enjoy it. Second of all, I was sitting on the 5th row! And when you sit on the fifth row, you can observe facial expressions and notice other details not seen further back. And third of all, the entire cast of the show was solid—especially the leads. No over-singing. No over-acting. And. The girl playing Elphaba is a friend of a friend—which I think is really cool.
So I’ll remember Tuesday night’s performance not only because of who I was with, where we were, and the circumstances surrounding the show, but also because of the show itself…which was excellent.
Just one thing, though—
Ten years ago, when I saw the show, Elphaba walked into a party only to be greeted by stares. Everyone stopped dancing and started snickering until Elphaba garnered enough courage and strength to dance her own dance in her own unique way. Eventually, the entire cast began dancing her dance with her. It was so beautiful.
Over the past decade, the scene has changed. Possibly through natural evolution or possibly from a director’s command, the scene has become somewhat more comical and more heavily focused on the interaction between Elphaba and Galinda…and…well…I just don’t think it as poignant as when Elphaba created her own world in a world that did not want her and danced anyway.
I want to have the courage to dance anyway—to be myself—to stand upright when I know the world is judgmentally staring.
After another friend had introduced me to Wicked the summer before, I’d made it my goal to see what was becoming one of the most popular shows on Broadway. I bought the soundtrack and did my best to piece together the story-line, but the soundtrack producers did a wonderful job leaving out key pieces of information that are crucial for fully understanding the story. Armed with a familiarity of the music and a deep curiosity about the plot-line, I greeted the show with an open-ignorance that can only be experienced once. With no preconceived notion as to how things “should be” or “should have been,” I watched in amazement as the lights, orchestra, voices, costumes, choreography, and visual effects melded together seamlessly in an extraordinarily powerful performance.
I suppose that seeing a show for the first time becomes the standard by which every other viewing is measured. If the first show was great, then all other shows will pale in comparison. If the first show was awful, then all other shows will be valued for their improvements. My first time seeing Wicked was great. I guess it’s no wonder, then, that I don’t remember much about the 2nd, 3rd, and 4th times that I saw the show—just who I was with (three friends; mom and sister; one friend), where we were (Greenville; Durham; Charlotte), and the circumstances surrounding our attending the show (a birthday; Mother’s Day; a needed break from the grief of care-giving).
Tuesday night’s performance was different. First of all, my seeing Wicked that night was a gift. B sacrificed her opportunity to see the show because she knew how much I’d enjoy it. Second of all, I was sitting on the 5th row! And when you sit on the fifth row, you can observe facial expressions and notice other details not seen further back. And third of all, the entire cast of the show was solid—especially the leads. No over-singing. No over-acting. And. The girl playing Elphaba is a friend of a friend—which I think is really cool.
So I’ll remember Tuesday night’s performance not only because of who I was with, where we were, and the circumstances surrounding the show, but also because of the show itself…which was excellent.
Just one thing, though—
Ten years ago, when I saw the show, Elphaba walked into a party only to be greeted by stares. Everyone stopped dancing and started snickering until Elphaba garnered enough courage and strength to dance her own dance in her own unique way. Eventually, the entire cast began dancing her dance with her. It was so beautiful.
Over the past decade, the scene has changed. Possibly through natural evolution or possibly from a director’s command, the scene has become somewhat more comical and more heavily focused on the interaction between Elphaba and Galinda…and…well…I just don’t think it as poignant as when Elphaba created her own world in a world that did not want her and danced anyway.
I want to have the courage to dance anyway—to be myself—to stand upright when I know the world is judgmentally staring.
Monday, January 19, 2015
Words Are Powerful
Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., ends his iconic “I Have A Dream” speech with the following words:
“When we let freedom ring…from every village and every hamlet, from every state and every city, we will be able to speed up that day when all of God's children, black men and white men, Jews and Gentiles, Protestants and Catholics, will be able to join hands and sing in the words of the old Negro spiritual, ‘Free at last! free at last! Thank God Almighty, we are free at last!"
I like to play this clip for my students each year so that they can hear Dr. King’s voice and see part of an historic American speech…and because “Free At Last” is one of the songs that my textbook writers included for study.
While I’ve always thought it neat that we could listen to Dr. King’s words and then immediately sing the song that he was referencing, I didn’t fully grasp the profundity of it until this year.
Sometime during my second day of teaching the lesson, while looking around the room at my students, I realized that we were doing exactly what Dr. King had dreamed. No. We weren’t literally holding hands and singing in a large human chain, but our hands were joined in following music from the same textbooks, under the same roof, at the same school, and our hands were all different shades of human.
One of my students asked me what Martin Luther King, Jr., did to earn a holiday if he wasn’t a president and how he changed the world if he didn’t use guns or violence. I said, “He used his words.”
Words are powerful.
While recovering from a recent bout with a stomach virus, I stumbled upon a somewhat dramatic episode of “Touched By An Angel.” In the episode, Gus, a down-on-his-luck insurance salesman, sold his soul to the devil in exchange for the commission on an insurance policy that would provide enough money for him to care for his ailing wife. Monica, an angel, was very concerned about Gus’s actions and consulted Tess, the head angel, about what to do—because she felt that all she had to offer was words. Tess responded, “That’s what it’s all about, baby. Words. And we’ve got to shine the light on them so Gus can see what they really are. What they can do. Before it’s too late.”
When Monica went to talk to Gus and Gus confessed his belief that the contract for his soul was just words, Monica pleaded: “Don’t you understand? In the beginning was the Word. Words started everything. You know, it doesn’t matter if you speak your words to [your wife] or the devil or the child on the street. Words have meaning. You say them and you give them life. And whether you speak them into the air or write them down on a piece of paper your words mean as much as the oath you took on your wedding day, binding your soul to [your wife] forever. With God as your witness.” Eventually, Gus chose to sing the words to “This Little Light of Mine” and the devil and her contract faded away and all was well.
Words.
Fact or fiction.
Written or spoken.
Past or present.
Words hold power.
Words change lives.
And love does, too.
Hatred paralyzes life; love releases it. Hatred confuses life; love harmonizes it. Hatred darkens life; love illuminates it. –Martin Luther King, Jr.
May we use our words to
change lives in love
today and all the days to come.
Amen.
“When we let freedom ring…from every village and every hamlet, from every state and every city, we will be able to speed up that day when all of God's children, black men and white men, Jews and Gentiles, Protestants and Catholics, will be able to join hands and sing in the words of the old Negro spiritual, ‘Free at last! free at last! Thank God Almighty, we are free at last!"
I like to play this clip for my students each year so that they can hear Dr. King’s voice and see part of an historic American speech…and because “Free At Last” is one of the songs that my textbook writers included for study.
While I’ve always thought it neat that we could listen to Dr. King’s words and then immediately sing the song that he was referencing, I didn’t fully grasp the profundity of it until this year.
Sometime during my second day of teaching the lesson, while looking around the room at my students, I realized that we were doing exactly what Dr. King had dreamed. No. We weren’t literally holding hands and singing in a large human chain, but our hands were joined in following music from the same textbooks, under the same roof, at the same school, and our hands were all different shades of human.
One of my students asked me what Martin Luther King, Jr., did to earn a holiday if he wasn’t a president and how he changed the world if he didn’t use guns or violence. I said, “He used his words.”
Words are powerful.
While recovering from a recent bout with a stomach virus, I stumbled upon a somewhat dramatic episode of “Touched By An Angel.” In the episode, Gus, a down-on-his-luck insurance salesman, sold his soul to the devil in exchange for the commission on an insurance policy that would provide enough money for him to care for his ailing wife. Monica, an angel, was very concerned about Gus’s actions and consulted Tess, the head angel, about what to do—because she felt that all she had to offer was words. Tess responded, “That’s what it’s all about, baby. Words. And we’ve got to shine the light on them so Gus can see what they really are. What they can do. Before it’s too late.”
When Monica went to talk to Gus and Gus confessed his belief that the contract for his soul was just words, Monica pleaded: “Don’t you understand? In the beginning was the Word. Words started everything. You know, it doesn’t matter if you speak your words to [your wife] or the devil or the child on the street. Words have meaning. You say them and you give them life. And whether you speak them into the air or write them down on a piece of paper your words mean as much as the oath you took on your wedding day, binding your soul to [your wife] forever. With God as your witness.” Eventually, Gus chose to sing the words to “This Little Light of Mine” and the devil and her contract faded away and all was well.
Words.
Fact or fiction.
Written or spoken.
Past or present.
Words hold power.
Words change lives.
And love does, too.
Hatred paralyzes life; love releases it. Hatred confuses life; love harmonizes it. Hatred darkens life; love illuminates it. –Martin Luther King, Jr.
May we use our words to
change lives in love
today and all the days to come.
Amen.
Monday, January 12, 2015
And This Is My Kindness
Each week, B gives an art challenge of the week. On Friday mornings, we announce the winners and they come to the office to get a small prize. She’s been doing this since last year.
Sometime earlier this school-year, I decided that I’d present students with a character education challenge of the week. (Yes, I chose character education rather than music. What does that say about my passion as a teacher?) On Friday mornings, I announce the winners and they, too, come to the office to get a small prize.
Friday morning announcements have actually become one of the favorite times of the week—students crammed into the office, full of excitement from their wins, pushing through nerves to say their names on the intercom, joining voices in both the pledge of allegiance and the Johnsonville song. It’s really a neat experience. (It’s also a neat experience to learn that classroom teachers have turned the character education challenge into a classroom writing activity.)
The character education trait of both December and January has been kindness. I’ve had students define kindness, describe how they have recently shown kindness, draw and explain a holiday kindness scene, and write a poem about kindness.
This week’s assignment is similar to the latter yet somewhat specific: write a kindness acrostic. I explained what an acrostic was this morning and I’ll remind everyone again in the next few days. We’ll see if I get any kindness acrostics by Friday morning or if the character education box will be full of trash and overflow art challenge answers (which is the sometimes the case). Either way, I’m going to do my own character education challenge this week. So here it is—a kindness acrostic—in very typical Deanna style:
And This Is My…
Keep going, my friend.
It may seem that all is lost, but things are
Never beyond redemption.
Don’t give up. You can do it. And you
Never need do it alone.
Every moment, every minute, every
Second. You have my love and
Support. I believe in you.
What’s your kindness acrostic?
Or, if you want to participate in this week’s art challenge, here’s what you need to do: Draw the silhouette of an animal. Drawings or writings can be posted here or sent my way via county mail :-).
Sometime earlier this school-year, I decided that I’d present students with a character education challenge of the week. (Yes, I chose character education rather than music. What does that say about my passion as a teacher?) On Friday mornings, I announce the winners and they, too, come to the office to get a small prize.
Friday morning announcements have actually become one of the favorite times of the week—students crammed into the office, full of excitement from their wins, pushing through nerves to say their names on the intercom, joining voices in both the pledge of allegiance and the Johnsonville song. It’s really a neat experience. (It’s also a neat experience to learn that classroom teachers have turned the character education challenge into a classroom writing activity.)
The character education trait of both December and January has been kindness. I’ve had students define kindness, describe how they have recently shown kindness, draw and explain a holiday kindness scene, and write a poem about kindness.
This week’s assignment is similar to the latter yet somewhat specific: write a kindness acrostic. I explained what an acrostic was this morning and I’ll remind everyone again in the next few days. We’ll see if I get any kindness acrostics by Friday morning or if the character education box will be full of trash and overflow art challenge answers (which is the sometimes the case). Either way, I’m going to do my own character education challenge this week. So here it is—a kindness acrostic—in very typical Deanna style:
And This Is My…
Keep going, my friend.
It may seem that all is lost, but things are
Never beyond redemption.
Don’t give up. You can do it. And you
Never need do it alone.
Every moment, every minute, every
Second. You have my love and
Support. I believe in you.
What’s your kindness acrostic?
Or, if you want to participate in this week’s art challenge, here’s what you need to do: Draw the silhouette of an animal. Drawings or writings can be posted here or sent my way via county mail :-).
Thursday, January 8, 2015
Color Blind
Call me old-fashioned and crazy, but I enjoy using my music textbooks. I like the bound pages—the table of contents and indexes—the songs that have been sung throughout the years—the fashion of the decade when the books were produced. And here’s the thing: my students like using their music textbooks, too. They like looking at the pictures—and trying to find the right page numbers—and attempting to follow the music—and reading the information found in the book’s pages.
One of the units that is in every grade level of my textbooks is a unit on holidays and celebrations, and within that unit is a lesson on Martin Luther King, Jr. Naturally, different grade levels focus on different songs and musical concepts, but the underlying message in every grade is one of fairness and equality. I love the MLK, Jr. lessons.
I decided to do a little activity with my Kindergarten students on Monday to show them what segregation meant and why it made young MLK, Jr. sad to be told he could not play with some of his friends. My idea was to have all of my “white” students stand on one carpet and all of my “black” students stand on the other, but when it came time to actually do the activity I found myself thinking, “Wait a minute. Kids don’t always see color like adults do. Some of these babies may not realize that their skin is different than their classmates.’” But I still wanted to do the activity and it didn’t occur to me that I could “segregate” by boys and girls (brilliant, I know), so this is what I said:
“Look at your arm. If you think that your skin color matches or is the same as my skin color, then I want you to stand on the green carpet. If you think that your skin color is different than my skin color, then I want you to stand on the red carpet.”
Oh, kindergarteners, I love you. I love that you have no concept of skin color and that you ended up totally not segregated but that you still understood that it wasn’t cool for people on the red carpet to not be able to be friends with people on the green carpet—for whatever reason. I also love that you think I can’t see you peaking through the fingers covering your “closed” eyes.
If I didn’t think so before, then I definitely know it now: Kids are not born racist or prejudiced; kids are born color-blind.
Jesus tells us to come to him as little children.
And then he sends us into a world that he didn’t create in black and white but in vivid color.
…Living color-blind in a world of beautiful color…
Somehow, knowing the same Jesus as MLK, Jr.--
An impossibly complex, paradoxical,
rule and status quo defying, friend of sinners and lover of peace,
I think that sounds about right.
One of the units that is in every grade level of my textbooks is a unit on holidays and celebrations, and within that unit is a lesson on Martin Luther King, Jr. Naturally, different grade levels focus on different songs and musical concepts, but the underlying message in every grade is one of fairness and equality. I love the MLK, Jr. lessons.
I decided to do a little activity with my Kindergarten students on Monday to show them what segregation meant and why it made young MLK, Jr. sad to be told he could not play with some of his friends. My idea was to have all of my “white” students stand on one carpet and all of my “black” students stand on the other, but when it came time to actually do the activity I found myself thinking, “Wait a minute. Kids don’t always see color like adults do. Some of these babies may not realize that their skin is different than their classmates.’” But I still wanted to do the activity and it didn’t occur to me that I could “segregate” by boys and girls (brilliant, I know), so this is what I said:
“Look at your arm. If you think that your skin color matches or is the same as my skin color, then I want you to stand on the green carpet. If you think that your skin color is different than my skin color, then I want you to stand on the red carpet.”
Oh, kindergarteners, I love you. I love that you have no concept of skin color and that you ended up totally not segregated but that you still understood that it wasn’t cool for people on the red carpet to not be able to be friends with people on the green carpet—for whatever reason. I also love that you think I can’t see you peaking through the fingers covering your “closed” eyes.
If I didn’t think so before, then I definitely know it now: Kids are not born racist or prejudiced; kids are born color-blind.
Jesus tells us to come to him as little children.
And then he sends us into a world that he didn’t create in black and white but in vivid color.
…Living color-blind in a world of beautiful color…
Somehow, knowing the same Jesus as MLK, Jr.--
An impossibly complex, paradoxical,
rule and status quo defying, friend of sinners and lover of peace,
I think that sounds about right.
Monday, January 5, 2015
Do You Want To Build A Snowman
I bought Amelia a really nice Wizard of Oz calendar in my annual day-after-Christmas-50%-off-calendar binge. It was printed on thick paper, wire-bound, and included a large, detailed map of the Land of Oz. Amelia liked it. She was kind as she looked through the calendar with a smile both on her face and in her eyes. Yet. She had her heart set on a Frozen calendar. And. She has her aunt’s heart tied around her finger. So. I exchanged the really nice Wizard of Oz calendar for the trendy Frozen calendar. I was sort of sad. Amelia was thrilled. And then I felt a little less sad when Amelia got to her favorite page of the calendar—a picture of…Anna. Not Elsa. Anna.
Shortly after I went to see Frozen, I wrote a note about my dislike of the song, “Let It Go.” The song itself is fine, I suppose—when it’s not being screamed inappropriately by elementary-aged girls or when it’s not being sung prematurely for the plot—but it is not, to me, what the movie is about. Yes. Elsa must overcome the lie that was drilled into her as a child and young teenager—that she should “conceal, don’t feel”—and she must learn to be herself by embracing all of who she is—which is the most important thing that anyone can do—but Elsa would be nothing without the constant, steady, persistent love of her sister, Anna.
Whenever I start to ask anyone a question that starts with the words, “Do you want to…,” I find myself singing the opening motif to the song, “Do You Want To Build A Snowman?” Sometimes I just sing the question. Sometimes I continue onward and make up an entirely new song. Do you want to eat a cupcake? Do you want to have some ice cream? Do you want to get some coffee? Or, as I sang on the intercom this morning for the art question of the week, “Do you want to draw a snowman?”
Thanks to B’s request for me to sing the above question, I had the song stuck in my head all day. Naturally, after the students left this afternoon, I pulled up the song on YouTube and listened to it. Again. And again. And again. Today was actually the first time I’d ever done this. And I’ve only seen the movie once. Yet I found myself moved by Anna’s persistence in pursuing her sister—just as I did before.
For various reasons, Elsa was truly afraid of hurting those around her; I get that fear. I also get the moment when that fear comes true. It’s horrible. Yet I get this, too: After awhile, when someone like Anna keeps showing up—when someone gives space yet keeps trying—when someone keeps wanting to spend time with you—when someone keeps fighting for you even though you’ve hurt them and hidden from them and openly pushed them away—there comes a point when you must accept the fact that they truly love you…and that’s the moment when love changes everything. That’s the moment when you’re truly able to let it go.
Amelia didn’t explain all of that to me when she said that Anna was her favorite character. She simply said that she liked how Anna showed love to her sister…and then we sang the rest of our conversation. It went something like this: “Do you like your Frozen calendar? Better than the Wizard of Oz? Will you hang it on your wall? And mark the days off as they come?” “Yes I like my Frozen calendar better than the Wizard of Oz. And I’ll hang it on my wall and mark the days off as they come.”
Love changes everything, folks. Love changes everything.
Shortly after I went to see Frozen, I wrote a note about my dislike of the song, “Let It Go.” The song itself is fine, I suppose—when it’s not being screamed inappropriately by elementary-aged girls or when it’s not being sung prematurely for the plot—but it is not, to me, what the movie is about. Yes. Elsa must overcome the lie that was drilled into her as a child and young teenager—that she should “conceal, don’t feel”—and she must learn to be herself by embracing all of who she is—which is the most important thing that anyone can do—but Elsa would be nothing without the constant, steady, persistent love of her sister, Anna.
Whenever I start to ask anyone a question that starts with the words, “Do you want to…,” I find myself singing the opening motif to the song, “Do You Want To Build A Snowman?” Sometimes I just sing the question. Sometimes I continue onward and make up an entirely new song. Do you want to eat a cupcake? Do you want to have some ice cream? Do you want to get some coffee? Or, as I sang on the intercom this morning for the art question of the week, “Do you want to draw a snowman?”
Thanks to B’s request for me to sing the above question, I had the song stuck in my head all day. Naturally, after the students left this afternoon, I pulled up the song on YouTube and listened to it. Again. And again. And again. Today was actually the first time I’d ever done this. And I’ve only seen the movie once. Yet I found myself moved by Anna’s persistence in pursuing her sister—just as I did before.
For various reasons, Elsa was truly afraid of hurting those around her; I get that fear. I also get the moment when that fear comes true. It’s horrible. Yet I get this, too: After awhile, when someone like Anna keeps showing up—when someone gives space yet keeps trying—when someone keeps wanting to spend time with you—when someone keeps fighting for you even though you’ve hurt them and hidden from them and openly pushed them away—there comes a point when you must accept the fact that they truly love you…and that’s the moment when love changes everything. That’s the moment when you’re truly able to let it go.
Amelia didn’t explain all of that to me when she said that Anna was her favorite character. She simply said that she liked how Anna showed love to her sister…and then we sang the rest of our conversation. It went something like this: “Do you like your Frozen calendar? Better than the Wizard of Oz? Will you hang it on your wall? And mark the days off as they come?” “Yes I like my Frozen calendar better than the Wizard of Oz. And I’ll hang it on my wall and mark the days off as they come.”
Love changes everything, folks. Love changes everything.
Thursday, January 1, 2015
One Who Shows Up
I was up until 5 this morning gathering and saving words from 2014. Conversations. Songs. Messages of affirmation. My walls are filled with words—artistic renditions of inspirational sayings, poignant painting titles, memories of the circumstances and words attached with sketches. My paper files are filled with words—cards sent in the mail, notes received at work, scraps of paper collected at retreats. My computer files are filled with words—e-mails, texts, poems, letters. As I’ve said before, words are both my salvation and my kryptonite.
I found some interesting texts last night. Ones that made me think. Ones that allowed me both to reflect backward and imagine forward. And here are the ones that I keep thinking about today:
First, one that I wrote: “I’m listening to a Sara Groves’ CD that I haven’t heard in a few years. Sara Groves is my favorite singer/songwriter. In the song, I think she perfectly captures my desire to know people: ‘And at the risk of wearing out my welcome, at the risk of self discovery, I'll take every moment, and every minute that you'll give me.’”
Next, one that I received during a conversation about a gift-giving crisis that I’ve been having—mainly about how some people willingly accept gifts while others see gifts with strings attached: “You have to choose the right people.”
Finally, one that I received while discussing future vacation plans: “She’s always shown up. I’m going to spend this year focusing on people who show up rather than worrying about the rest.”
…
I wrote a poem the other day:
I saw you as approachable and kind,
A good hearted-soul, called to serve and give.
I gave you my confidence and trust
And you shattered them against the walls of your box.
I cared for you and chose you as friend.
Yet you saw me as someone who singled you out
Not because of genuine desire to know you
But out of malicious intent to do you harm.
I was not your past.
Yet present and future have turned to past
As zoning out with eyes glazed-over is not my idea of friendship.
One-sided conversation with one-word responses void of trust and vulnerability
Is not worth walking on eggshells while carrying the shards of a constantly breaking heart.
I saw you as approachable and kind,
A good hearted-soul, called to serve and give.
I was wrong.
I am cleaning up my mess.
I am leaving you to the walls of your box.
…
I think maybe the right people—
The ones with whom it’s safe to risk self-discovery—
The ones with whom I can rest in the desire to spend
Every moment and minute that they’ll give—
Are the ones who daily choose to step outside the walls of self-preservation,
Show up,
And risk the same.
Dear God,
this year,
help me be a friend who shows up.
And help me
focus on and surround myself
with the same.
Love.
Always, love.
Amen.
I found some interesting texts last night. Ones that made me think. Ones that allowed me both to reflect backward and imagine forward. And here are the ones that I keep thinking about today:
First, one that I wrote: “I’m listening to a Sara Groves’ CD that I haven’t heard in a few years. Sara Groves is my favorite singer/songwriter. In the song, I think she perfectly captures my desire to know people: ‘And at the risk of wearing out my welcome, at the risk of self discovery, I'll take every moment, and every minute that you'll give me.’”
Next, one that I received during a conversation about a gift-giving crisis that I’ve been having—mainly about how some people willingly accept gifts while others see gifts with strings attached: “You have to choose the right people.”
Finally, one that I received while discussing future vacation plans: “She’s always shown up. I’m going to spend this year focusing on people who show up rather than worrying about the rest.”
…
I wrote a poem the other day:
I saw you as approachable and kind,
A good hearted-soul, called to serve and give.
I gave you my confidence and trust
And you shattered them against the walls of your box.
I cared for you and chose you as friend.
Yet you saw me as someone who singled you out
Not because of genuine desire to know you
But out of malicious intent to do you harm.
I was not your past.
Yet present and future have turned to past
As zoning out with eyes glazed-over is not my idea of friendship.
One-sided conversation with one-word responses void of trust and vulnerability
Is not worth walking on eggshells while carrying the shards of a constantly breaking heart.
I saw you as approachable and kind,
A good hearted-soul, called to serve and give.
I was wrong.
I am cleaning up my mess.
I am leaving you to the walls of your box.
…
I think maybe the right people—
The ones with whom it’s safe to risk self-discovery—
The ones with whom I can rest in the desire to spend
Every moment and minute that they’ll give—
Are the ones who daily choose to step outside the walls of self-preservation,
Show up,
And risk the same.
Dear God,
this year,
help me be a friend who shows up.
And help me
focus on and surround myself
with the same.
Love.
Always, love.
Amen.
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