Daily Discomfort: The Rose

Tags

Christmas, Christmas Music, Community, Grief

I know that Christmas has passed.  I am posting this anyway, keeping a promise to myself.  

The neighbor came to the door on the Tuesday before Christmas.  Our house was already full of relatives, and preparations for the big days were underway.  The list of chores was published on the refrigerator, both by day and time. Wrapping paper and cleaning supplies littered the kitchen counter. Like Hannibal’s march to Carthage, the elephants of Christmas had already been engaged and were being loaded with the accouterments of joyful celebration.

Her husband had died.  She had steeled herself to tell us this, putting all of her energy into making her words sound like an ordinary statement.  My mother is coming to visit.  Your garden looks nice.  My husband died.  He had surgery and then… complications.  Her voice broke then as she told us about the things she never knew before.  How fragile this life is, how someone should always be there for a loved one in the hospital.  Her grief skated just below the surface, and I felt bad that she should have to hide the storm inside.   If I just had a magic wand, I could sit her down, stop time all around her and say, “Okay, let her blow!  It’s safe, and you’ll feel better after this gale.”

I don’t have a magic wand.  None of us do.  All we have are the seeds of humanity.  The small kindnesses we can do for one another.  The smiles, the handshakes, the hugs.  Arriving on time, leaving late, popping round, and asking after one another.  We offer help, and we mean it.  We mow grass or pick up mail.  We lift up prayers. When we compare the hurt of losing a loved one to the insignificance of our actions, we feel helpless and inadequate.  Yet we can’t know how our actions have propped that person up.  When we act, we leave an opening for hope to peep through.

In the dead of winter, a rose…

Hope is the one thing we cannot afford to lose.  I don’t know if Jesus was actually born on December 25 or not, but I’m glad we celebrate His birth at this time of year, when the earth is cold and dark and gloomy.   As much as I detest the pomp and circumstance, the false emotion that sometimes surrounds Christmas time, I cling to this; He came so that hope might be possible.  The rose of winter; grant that I might keep it in my remembrance throughout the year.

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Daily Discomfort: Christmas Star Triptych

Tags

Christmas, Christmas Music, creative writing

We crowded the steps leading to the baptismal pool.  I negotiated a maze of angel wings and halos to take my place with the other two kings.  The small area, the only backstage in the small wooden structure, smelled like sweat and candy cane.  Our high pitched voices grew louder as the time for the pageant grew near.  The Sunday School teacher placed her finger against her lips and zoomed her bottle green eyes in on each of us, the perfect silent “shh.”  As we quieted, the preacher’s sonorous voice spread over us like eggnog, and we all waited like marathoners at the start line.

Suddenly, the preacher spoke the code word; Glory!  Mary and Joseph entered with the plastic baby Jesus. Sheep and cows lumbered onto the tiny proscenium, baa-ing and moo-ing.  Shepherds sauntered in with their giant sheep herding sticks. The Sunday School teacher, now stationed on the front row, gave the shepherds a preventative glare, because she knew all about boys and sticks.  Angels flitted across the stage, halos wobbled.

Finally, finally, it was time for the three Kings to arrive.  I took a deep breath and entered stage left.  The other two kings followed apace.  We moved to center stage.  The pianist began playing arpeggios.  This was my cue.  I took a step forward and started to sing.  Silver glitter from star the preschoolers contributed to the pageant twinkled off the light of my uncle’s varmint huntin’ spotlight.

 

She’s wearing her princess costume today, with her gold glitter shoes.  Her mother carefully pulled her hair into a French braid this morning, but it’s clear that she’s played all morning, and the braid has sprouted little blonde chutes.  It’s one week exactly before Christmas Eve.  The line of shoppers waiting at the check-out is unreasonably long. She and her mother have finally reached the cashier.  While her mother pays for her merchandise, she hops on one foot, then pulls on her mother’s leg.  Mom picks her up and holds her until it’s time to sign the pay slip.  When Mom puts her down, the child slides down her Mother’s body, resisting the ground with all four of her years.

The little princess silently demonstrates her displeasure by raking her hand across the gift card display and knocking several gift cards to the ground.  Mom bends down to eye level and speaks into the princess’s ear.  Mom then says, “There are only five.  You need to pick them up.”

The girl’s answer is no.  It’s unequivocal and clear.  Mom puts her hand over her own face, and I think she’s about to give up.  Then, she removes her hand, all traces of frustration erased.  She kneels next to her daughter, gently coaxing her.  Shoppers walk around the two with disgruntled looks on their faces.  After a few moments, the little princess starts picking up the gift cards and placing them into their display case.  By the time she finishes, she has a smile on her face.

Mom picks the girl up, takes her package and walks away from the cashier stand.  The little princess pulls a starry wand out of her mother’s purse.  The last thing I see as they exit is the star perched over the brave mother’s head.

He knew nothing of nitrogen.  Hydrogen, gas, and light years were an as yet unraveled mystery.  He knew only the love of his wife and children, the gentle breeze along the hillside, the sounds of the animals, the cadence of the night.  He knew vigilance; wolves prowled these lands and sleep meant the loss of his precious livestock.

Then, fire split the night.  The voice of one who said, “Savior.”  He glanced across the hillsides. Others stood with their eyes upturned, watching, listening.  “Find Him,” said the voice.  He considered, thinking of his children, his wife, his animals.  A song arose, and he glimpsed the angel, hair flowing in a corona above him, backlit by the great mass of hydrogen and nitrogen.  His face turned toward the City of David as the angel sounded “Glory!”

Daily Discomfort: Christmas Lows

Tags

Christmas, Christmas Music

We’re having the crew over for Christmas Eve this year, and I didn’t feel right about letting our Christmas bush stand in for a real Christmas tree, so Super Hub bought a new fake tree and brought it home yesterday.  I agreed to put the tree up and decorate it today.

All day long, the box sat in the middle of the room, mocking me.  I should have mopped the floors, done the laundry,  worked on student feedback and a presentation for my Write for Texas job, written this blog post, made supper, sent a holiday email to people invited to the party, made a Christmas card list, wrapped presents, and searched the internet for the final round of presents.  Oh, and put up and decorate the tree.  Here’s what I did instead:

• Got up
• Turned on the TV
• Drank Coffee
• Watched Dracula (The one with Gary Oldman – weirdly fascinating, kind of like the Jerry Springer show- you know it’s bad but you just can’t look away)
• Decided I hadn’t watched enough TV and found a sit com to serial watch for two more hours.  It was called Hello, Ladies, if you want to know.  I pretended that it was too engaging to stop watching, but who am I kidding?
• Read a book
• Took a bath
• Made the bed, cleaned the kitchen, did a load of laundry, cooked supper, and put the tree up just as SH was coming home from his Cancer treatment.  I don’t feel guilty at all that he was at work all day and I was home having the fall aparts. Not. I feel really, really, guilty, like put me in the chain gang guilty. But the tree, the tree kept sitting there so smug in its box, and I felt too paralyzed to get up and face the ornaments.

Why is it that this time of year always makes me feel- low? This is hard to admit in writing, and it’s even harder to tell people that I don’t like Christmas out loud. The last time I told someone about my problem, they looked at me like I had just committed an armed robbery at a Convent.

According to the Hallmark channel, and everyone I know, there is something wrong with people who don’t like Christmas. I keep waiting for the other stocking to fall, for God/Santa/ a wise old magical angel woman to school me in Christmas spirit via time travel,having to switch bodies with someone who lives under a bridge,getting arrested,missing my train, plane and automobile, or being left home alone. After my lesson, my heart will grow three sizes and I will seek out opportunities to slog through a crowded mall with grumpy, unwashed people so I can throw coins at them and wish them Seasons Greetings.

I would love to feel another way, I would.  I’m a nice person, I’m thankful for my life, and I generally get along with the world. I keep waiting, but so far no Angel has shown up at my door to earn his or her wings. The three weeks between Thanksgiving and Christmas are probably always going to be problematic for me, because I just can’t meet the expectation of pep associated with socially acceptable Christmas spirit.

But I wonder, if Jesus were here with us right now, what would he feel about Christmas?  I mean, about what it’s turned into?  As soon as the canons of literature and song started to develop around this time of year, the idea of Christmas began to be mythologized.  Take the line from the song, “Away in a Manger,” that I used to guide my thinking for this post.

the cattle are lowing, the baby awakes

but little Lord Jesus no crying he makes 

If the cattle were lowing, that means they weren’t chewing their cuds.  They wanted something, so they weren’t content with their lot.  And no matter what the song says, the baby Jesus cried, because he was a baby.  His Mother and Father might have felt like crying, too. They were very young, and a long way from home. They didn’t have a place to stay, and they ended up in a barn, with dirt and hay, and manure.

The message they brought was one of hope, but it didn’t bang you over the head with candy canes.  Their kind of hope crept in and grew, as the baby grew. It sacrificed as the man Jesus sacrificed himself.  This hope was real, and grounded in love for the disenfranchised, the outcasts, the lonely, the plain, and the bad.  Naughty or nice, we are all on His list.  That’s a message I can get behind.

I hope that none of you, my dear readers, are afflicted with Christmas-itis as I am.  I hope the Christmas Season makes you feel warm and fuzzy. I hope your Christmas tree, turkey, cards, presents, and pictures make Martha Stewart look like a rank amateur.  I hope you love every moment, I do.

But if you don’t, I’m with you.  And I think it’s really going to be okay.

Paus(ed): Finding Poems at Christmas

Tags

Christmas, Christmas Poetry, Education, Found Poem, poetry

See the torn cover on this much loved tome?

Let’s face it. Students come back from the Thanksgiving holiday with one thing on their minds.  How long until the Christmas break?  This is not the time to assign the first thirty chapters of War and Peace or the fifteen Latin declensions of the root par including past, past perfect, and pluperfect iterations.

(Note: I wouldn’t know what a declension was if it bit me, but it sounds like the sort of snooze worthy assignment guaranteed to kill peace and goodwill among all nations.)

At this time of year, there is a delicate balance between providing enough cognitive load to ensure learning and keeping the content light enough to engage distracted, sugar laden young brains.

Writing poetry fits nicely into this time frame, because poems can be drafted, revised, edited, and turned in within two or three days, and because it gives the student an immediate sense of success and accomplishment.

I like using the literature we are already reading to have students create found poems. To produce a found poem, students borrow words or groups of words, rearranging to create their own poems.  When generating a true found poem, students should add punctuation only, and none of their own words. This is more challenging than it may seem at first, but almost every student can find lines, words, or groups of words that appeal to them, and almost every student will be able to complete this assignment.

I really liked this teacher’s explanation of the found poem.  It may give you some more ideas about how to get students to think of the found poem assignment as word play.  He even says that words are toys at one point in the video.  Students will listen to toy related talk any time.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0czPlqh4DEo

I used Christmas literature during December, because there is no shortage of well written mentor text on this topic. I always had other literature available for students who did not observe the holiday, and it never presented a problem in my classroom.  If your school district has policies against using Christmas literature, just let students use the great literature you are already reading with them

Here’s the found poem I wrote last week.

With so much great Christmas literature out there, I’m sure you already have some of your favorites, but here are some of mine. . .

The Best Christmas Pageant Ever by Barbara Robinson- Best first line in a book, ever.

Santa Calls by William Joyce: This book has a letter in the back of it.  You could also use this book as a springboard to write some Christmas letters.

Santa’s Twin – Dean Koontz

How the Grinch Stole Christmas By Dr. Seuss.

The Polar Express by Chris Van Allsburg

What Child is This? A Christmas Story by Caroline Cooney

Happy Finding!  If your students write great found poems, send them to me.  I’d love to see them.

Daily Discomfort: Fall

Tags

Autumn, Christmas, Christmas Music, creative writing, Fall, fiction, short fiction, short story, writing

Fall finally arrives.  The world’s gone yellow, orange, gray, the glory and decay of autumn.  When the morning air hums of cold, she feels as if she should be about something grand. This time of the year, she spends a lot of time hoping people will believe that she’s an enlightened, expansive sort of soul.

She sips her coffee and stares out the big picture window at the crescent of fog ringing the edge of the pond out back.  “This room needs a good cleaning before the masses descend,” she thinks.  She plucks a pair of muddy Converse off the dining room table and turns to the kitchen to get the broom.

The first child stumbles in, rubbing sleep from his eyes, talking of homemade waffles.  Her day begins.  Words like grand, words like expansive, they’re as defrayed as the yellowed light of the sun shining through the murky clouds.  She’s about car pool, she’s about the Brownie sleigh ride, not getting groped at her husband’s office party, writing the cards, the buying, the wrapping, the obligations of the commonplace, the ordinary.

At the post office, the clerk ho-ho-ho’s every customer. The customers stand in an interminable line, their faces reddened by the snap of wind outside.  They smile politely at the holly jolly clerk, and when it’s her turn she does the same.  That’s how you’re supposed to act at Christmas.  She sees people in this other gear, this Joyeaux Noel peppiness, and it’s like the language of Swahili to her.  If this cheer is a disease, she’s never caught it, but she doesn’t want to be known as a Christmas hater.  So she fakes.

Late in the afternoon, after she’s done three days’ worth of man work, she digs in her garden while the children play in a pile of leaves. They sing Jingle Bells.  The little one shouts, “Chipmunk style!”  They sing Jingle Bells again, their voices pinched and high.  At least they speak Swahili, she thinks. I can be proud of that.

She wishes it could feel different, without this fog of expectations she’s laid on herself, to make it perfect for everyone else. She kneels in the garden watching the leaves fall.  She reaches down to brush the dirt off her knees.