Reflections on the trail...

Mom & Me: Shore House Cafe

This morning I did my weekly long run, which is now 10K (6.2 miles). I've only done it twice. Last week was the first. The path I run is part footpath, part equestrian trail, and part bike path. I run through chaparral, along baseball fields, golf courses, and even a few blocks of homes. Today I saw a red tailed hawk, about 50 feet away.

I noticed striations (lines) across the foot path that looked like someone had lightly drawn some antlers through the dirt. Upon closer inspection, I discovered they were ant paths! They had trodden down the dusty path to form their own foot paths. Later, in the neighborhood part of the trail, an asphalt driveway across the path was bounded by some two-by-fours. This barrier not only gave a nice edge for the driveway, but created a super highway for the ants. There seemed a lot of traffic for a Sunday morning. But then, ants are probably not about weeks, just days/nights, and perhaps seasons. (An occasionally rain.)

Sunny Flower

Under one huge tree that was all abloom, I stopped and listened. The tree was abuzz with hundreds and hundreds of bees. (They also were busy on a Sunday morning.)

The trail was very hilly and though most of it is just dirt, some parts are covered with crushed granite or heavy gravel. Heavy gravel is difficult to run up, and a bit dangerous to run down. Going uphill, I discovered that the edges of the pathway were more lightly strewn with gravel. So on the return trip, I asked myself, "What would Robert Frost do?" And I took the path less graveled, and that made all the difference!

Sunny Flower's Familiy

This trail is a less traveled trail in Fullerton, in part perhaps because of the steep stretches it contains. I thought about Frost's poem, The Road Not Taken, as I ran. It reminded me of my own life. Like the narrator in the poem, 

Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.  (I took a road, just one less traveled by.)

Yesterday, I started rereading a book I read for the first time in 1976, Be Here Now, by Ram Dass. As a result, I enjoyed today's run even more. I also am rereading The Ultimate Beginners Running Guide: The Key  to Running Inspired.  As a result, I ran with better form. One of the "prizes" I got from last week's 10K along this same hilly path are two slightly blackened toenails. I changed the way I laced up my shoes, and I made sure I landed softly on the side of my foot. I also practiced leaning into hills as I walked up them, leaning from the ankles, not the waist. 

Hibiscus at Cal State Fullerton 

One other epiphany along the trail was encountered at the vista points. At one vista point, I missed the vista and instead watched some golfers teeing off. Silly me. How often have I missed the point of the life lesson because I looking around at others, instead of paying attention to lesson? On the way back, I ignored the golfers and took in the vista. The experience made me wonder about how many of life's lessons I'm still missing due to inattention? Vistas can be epiphanies, but they aren't always. It was a reminder to me to stay awake!

The start and finish line of my first 5K.

So, those were some of reflections on the trail from this morning. Parts of the run I just enjoyed the crunch of my feet on the path, the breeze in my face, or the "good morning" of a fellow biker/hiker/jogger. Sometimes, I just enjoyed the company of the ants, birds, bees, and squirrels. I like the road less traveled by. You?

Happy Mothers' Day (not for everybody), Optimism (for the over-thinker)

Happy Mothers' Day!

Chip: Visiting me at my desk.

To all who provide mothering!

Not all mothering comes from biological mothers, and not all biological mothers provide good mothering. It's not even gender specific: I was a Mr. Mom for a couple of years after my first wife's death. I mothered (and fathered).

This week at school, a fellow teacher called and asked if I could host a boy in my class for 45 minutes or so. He had been removed from his home due to extremely poor mothering. He really didn't want to make a Mothers' Day card along with the class. Kudos to this teacher for being aware, and for giving the boy an option. This teacher knew some of my story, and knew I would understand and provide a safe, warm place... away from the majority, who, rightfully so, love their mothers. Regardless of the day being celebrated, mindful souls know that others may have good reason why they don't enjoy or even like a certain holiday. School mimics life in that regard. We are a multiculturalistic society, with majorities and minorities of every shape and hue. Even on Mothers' Day.



* * * * *

Optimism: Can it be recovered and cultivated? 


A month ago I read a post written by a very bright junior or senior in high school who was feeling blue. Some of her dreams were being reality checked as she got closer to college and adulthood was coming into closer view.

Been there. Disillusionment is a tough row to hoe.

So I wrote her a poem. A poem for those who are at a point of personal despair: great or small, or somewhere in-between. Especially for those who think a lot. Depth of mind can sometimes drowned optimism and hope.

I give you:

I  Wonder If

(for We_the_pieces)

I wonder if hopelessness is an affliction caught by those who think too much?

Chip: Investigating a bug sighting.

I remember considering the quote,

"This world is a comedy to those that think, a tragedy to those that feel,"

and thinking,

"No, it's a tragic comedy to those who do either."

I remember sitting in my room alone,

listening to the mournful singing of Neil Young's

"Everybody Knows This is Nowhere."

I remember sitting in a church,

thinking about the fruitlessness of living.

But somewhere along the line...

Maybe it was Harold and Maude?

Maybe it was Cat Stevens' song:

If you want to sing out, sing out...

I don't know how, but...

I recovered my optimism.

Chip: Checking out Heidi, the dog.

And, I decided to cultivate it.

Perhaps hopelessness and giving up is like the flu

caught by young thinkers, who...

when mental health returns...

decide to live life with an informed naivety.

The Dreamer returns...

but now she knows some of the science of navigation.

The Dreamer returns...

but knows something of pace, goals, possibilities,

and boundaries.

I wonder if...

in the life of a thinker...

there are tides,

and turning points.

I spy: The Haan family (6 strong)

I wonder if...

health of mind is as much a game of fitness

as health of body.

Do you wonder

if you think too much?

I don't.

I. am. a. thinker.

And I like it that way.

A Poem inside a Story

I composed this free-write over at Write with Pictures... (enjoy!)

Strolling through the park, I again looked up at the statue and smiled. There will never be a monument in a park for me, but I never wanted one. I sat down on a bench and composed a poem. 

Sitting on a Bench at the feet of Greatness?

I've walked the path marked out for me for well nigh 40 years.

I've seen joys and I've seen sorrows.
I've held babies and I've held my breath.

Passers by don't look up to me,
but my kids do.
My name is not famous in the town,
but my students and colleagues love me.

I've not been instrumental in local history,
but I've been instrumental in a few lives.

I didn't die on a battlefield of glory,
no, I've lived in the trenches of life.

And one of my rewards is this...
I sit on a bench composing verse
until...
I stand and continue on...
walking the path marked out for me.

Too much fret... Let it be easy...

The same day I wrote the poem in my last post, I wrote the one that appears at the bottom of this post. On the way to work I usually listen to Chuck Smith of Calvary Chapel, Costa Mesa, California as he preaches his way through the Bible. I used to listen to J. Vernon McGee do the same. They share a lot of Bible verses and personal insights. Sometimes the verses resonate, sometimes the insights. This morning it was a bit of both. 

Chuck was talking about the life of the Apostle Paul. Paul was a man who let God call the shots. Paul was a man who walked by faith. In the end, all that matters, is being true to the call of God.

It's not about the impact, the assessments of others, or knowing your five-year plan. What really matters is knowing the will of God and doing it.

The simplicity of walking with God is summed up in a verse that used to hang in my house 25 years ago. It read, "Except ye be converted, and become as little children, ye shall not enter into the kingdom of heaven."

Children keep it simple. And they are happy a lot of the time. They trust their Father's care and guidance.

Enjoy the poem!

(Pictures today were taken by my cousin Dennis, aka Pastor Dennis who comments often. Thanks Dennis!)

Called of God

God called a man to serve him:

he was on the road to Emmaus.

And along the way... life happened.

And then he was taken.

* * * * *

God called a man to serve Him:

he was a student in high school.

And along the way... life happened.

And still happens.

*  * * * *

And what was that call?

The same to both...

Simple stuff...

 

"Follow me."

* * * * *

"It's not complicated."

"Keep it simple."

"Walk with Me."

"Let it be easy."

I once was lost... okay... more than once...

Hello everybody! It seems like a while since I've posted. Things are calming down (except for the end-of-the-quarter flurry of activity). 

My front yard

The contract settlement is a relief to many in the district, and for sure at my school site. With that unsought "project" behind me... I've turned my thoughts and energies to other activities, including... I read another book: My life in dog years by Gary Paulsen.

In his book, Gary tells of some of the dogs who have made a lasting impression upon him. The book is dedicated to Cookie, a dog who saved Gary's life after he fell through the ice and sank. Gary acknowledges that all the accomplishments of his last 18 years are a direct result of Cookie's rescue. 

My front yard view: a park

A good reader often makes connections between a book and their own life. I sat at my desk I thought of my own "life savers," especially my wife Leslie, who  "saved" me from living in the past, from being alone, and helped launch my new career as a teacher. I am in her debt and in the debt of the One who brought us together. (We saved each other.)

The poem:

In a time of grave danger...

A dog saved a man

who then lived many years.

After 18 years... the man still remembers the dog who saved him... and gave him... 18 years... and counting.

Thanks dog.

God saved a man

who then  lived many years.

After 40 years... the man still remembers the God who saved him... and the people God used...

Thanks God.

Thanks people.

Allured to the Vista Point...

Joshua Tree National Park

Allured...

Not content with the view from below,
I snapped a picture and made the ascent.

The trek long.
The path always upward.

The view?
Stunning.

Visionary.
Unspeakable.

Ample reward
for the allured.




(A truism I enjoy is this, "Show me someone who is bored, and I'll show you someone who lacks meaningful challenges.")


These days I've got my challenges: some imposed, some chosen. I'll endure the imposed ones, but I aim to enjoy the chosen ones. Some paths are chosen for you, some you get to chose. Regardless, the path is generally upwards with occasional vista points, and at the end... triumph.


Keep climbing!


(I wrote Allured last Friday in response to a photo over here. The picture on this post was of rock climber at Joshua Tree.)

New visitors...

I appreciated the recent visit from Betty. She commented on my last post along these lines:

"Lovely photos! Thank you!
First time here; Your blog is truly interesting!Love it!
Hope you're having a great weekend :)
Betty"

This comment aroused my curiosity, so I meandered over to her blog...

A kindred soul. A Renaissance woman. A fellow philosopher and humorist. How nice.

(I think I found our common link: SeptemberMom. Who had commented on one of Betty's posts regarding Happiness.)

Inspiration is often found in community. Betty's post on happiness led to my free-verse response:


Happiness

is the inward chuckle
inspired by a positive twist,

the half smile
evoked in the presence of beauty, large or small,

and the inner laughter
erupting from a sense of delight.

Happiness is a way of travel.
Happiness is a lens.
Happiness is...



Looking for some inspiration or just some enjoyment... check out her blog.



(These pictures are from the last night of my March get-away to San Clemente. The view from our balcony.)

Progress is a new horse.

I'm a teacher. Teachers are supposed to be change agents, that is, we try to get students to change. That's what education is: positive change, improvement. Call it, progress.

But most of us are what I call resistant learners, especially when it comes to trying new ways of doing things, new ways of learning, new processes for progress.

We may be dissatisfied with our rate of improvement, but we like our methods. Our old ways are comfortable, broken in, safe.



So a big part of my job is to entice students to try new ways of doing things: ways that work better than their old ways. It doesn't matter if we're talking about ways to read a book, do long division, or sit at a desk. There are better ways of doing things. Ways that lead to academic progress.

Slow and sure may win the race, but I often work with students who are behind and need to catch up. They need to accelerate their progress. They need help, and often want help. They just don't always want to change.

That's why they need a change agent: a catalyst for improvement.



Recently one of my daily reading groups read a poem by Emily Dickinson. Here it is:

Fame is a bee

Fame is a bee.
It has a song—
It has a sting—
Ah, too, it has a wing.

After several minutes of discussion, I was able to help my students reach personal epiphanies: this poem is not mainly about bees. What?!

They made connections: Britney Spears, for example. It was fun to watch.




Several days later I composed a poem in the general style of "Fame is a bee" that captures a lesson I've taught many times this year. My poem is called, "Progress is a new horse." The kids loved it. They applauded. Ah shucks. Here it is:

Progress is a new horse.

On the road of progress,
I find my old horse is dead.
It doesn’t carry me where I want to go.

But I love my old horse.
It’s the way I’ve always done things.
I hate to admit I’m riding a dead horse.

On the road to progress,
New horses are waiting to be ridden,
Horses recommended by previous owners.

Progress is a choice of horses.

* * * *

(Last weekend my wife and I took a weekend trip to a timeshare called San Clemente Inn. We drove down on a Friday and returned on a Monday. I took pictures.)

A Rictameter (not): 2010!

Sciptor, a true word lover, offered this nugget of knowledge recently over on his blog: "A rictameter is an unrhymed, 9-line poem with a syllable count of 2/4/6/8/10/8/6/4/2 in which the first and last lines are the same."



Always on the lookout for new forms to try out... I give you...

2010!

2010 commences.
Old: set in stone.
Trip around the sun now complete.
Highs and lows, ebbs and flows: spirals drawn.
One year ends, another begins -- One decade passes, another begins.
Pastels or browns, success or failure: probably both.
Trip around the sun barely begun.
New: unset and open.
2010 commences.



Happy New Year! Carpe anum!

PS:

Being the proof-reader that I am... I discover that I've misread the directions/definitions. Rictameters involve syllable counts, not word counts. So this is not a Rictameter!

As a teacher, I am always amazed at how often my students don't read the directions, and they end up missing the point. As a teacher, I am too often amazed at how often I do the same. The nice thing is... my students catch me! Or sometimes, I catch my own mistrakes. Sometimes I don't. ;-)

December Reflections

Recently I began to visit a daily photo blog. DawnTreader, the blogging photographer lives in southern Sweden. (How cool is that?)

Her pictures and post titles often invite fiction or, sometimes, poetry.

Today her picture inspired me to "pen" a brief poem.

DawnTreader's post is entitled: Tuesday Blue: December Reflections. Here is her picture:



Here is my poem:

December Reflections

Everything seems a bit blue
and upside down.

Nothing is clear
but strangely blurred.

Life is such a riddle.

But then...

I discover I'm looking down
instead of up!

I'm not even seeing what's real,
just some doubly reversed image.

No more December distortions!

Time marches on! And so do we.

I enjoy keeping up with my friends who blog. Chase is one of them.

TS Kuhn, author of Structure of Scientific Revolutions, suggested that scientific communities progress as a unit. (The current Climate-gate saga serves as an example.)

I think blogging communities do the same. We get each other thinking.

Chase recently returned from a year in Taiwan. He's been home about two months. He notes that his experiences seem to have happened a lifetime ago.



As I pondered his post... I waxed poetic:

If Yoda wrote poetry…

Russian nesting dolls are we?
Old me’s contained in new?

Pearls are we?
A grain of earth at core…
building coat after coat of living splendor…
one day at a time?

Travelers are we?
Old journeys wrapped in new?
Early days encased in present?

And what of tomorrow?
Then who will we be?

Answer me that!




* * * * * * * * * *

Via the wonder of the internet, we can build communities that stretch across the globe. How cool is that!

And together... we step forward... and grow.

A thank-you poem

A pair of co-workers prepared a picnic-basket dinner for my family tonight. It was beyond lovely and beyond delicious. Was it only a dinner? No, it was a love feast. So I penned this poem of thanks for T & M --



A Love Feast

“We appreciate you.”
That’s what the card said.

A picnic-basket dinner:
enchiladas, beer, avocados,

beans, salad, sour cream,
and don’t forget dessert:
brownies with chocolate chips.

“We appreciate you.”
That’s what the card said.

Beneath the card,
Mixed, chopped, and stirred
was a feast of love.

Conceived in care.
Prepared with affection.
Delivered simply.

We ate.
We enjoyed.
And when no one was looking…

I cried.
Remembering…

A decade earlier,
There was another dinner,
For a family with a dying mom.

Conceived in care.
Prepared with affection.
Delivered simply.

When words fail.
Food speaks.
The secret ingredient?
Love.

When words fail.
Food speaks:
Volumes.

A Dock and A Pond: Writers' Workshop

"An Undervalued Variable: Does your writing teacher write?" That was the title of my master's thesis.

About 90% of the writing teachers I surveyed do not write on anywhere near a regular basis: not even a twice-yearly newsletter. I wouldn't want to learn golf from a non-golfer. I don't want to teach writing if I'm not a writer: so I write.

Besides my own blog, I practice my writing at Pictures, Poetry, and Prose, aka PP&P. Laura Jane daily posts a picture and a prompt. I'm collecting most of my entries from there and posting them here. If you'd like to explore her blog, go for it.

I'm also posting a link to the photographer sites and the original PP&P site. For the adventurous, you can see more photos and read more entries on the picture of the day. (Perhaps you'll be prompted to practice your craft! Go ahead. Have some fun!)

Today, I've pulled two stories that have a loose connection: both pictures feature water.

Here is the picture that prompted the first piece. I wrote the piece from the point of view of the youngest girl on the dock. I have 36 first cousins: many of the female! I have two older sisters. I have daughters. It was no stretch at all to compose a piece from a young girl's point of view. (I also teach at an elementary school.) This entry won the daily prize at PP&P. The piece also reflects my general optimism.





Photo by Sabrina
Visit her blog - Nouns Make Verbs

(Other postings based on this photo at PP&P.)

This has always been one of my favorite childhood pictures. Aunt Joyce took the picture of the four girl cousins: the two older and the two younger. That's me on the far right -- the youngest.

We were at Big Bear Lake enjoying the sun in our cutoffs and shorts.

But what makes this picture my favorite is that Cousin Candy is wearing the friendship bracelet I made her at camp. (She's on the far left.)

It was the first time in my life that I felt included, valued, and loved by the older cousins.

That week changed my life, and this picture is proof of my arrival into the society of the girl cousins. I mattered.


The second piece I'm sharing today is based on the photo below. In addition to teaching writing, I teach math. Hidden in this short poem is a lesson on integers: positive and negative numbers. See if you can find it!





Photo by Lorelei
Visit her photo gallery at - http://www.pbase.com/birdseye
and her blog at - http://www.westcoastwriters.blogspot.com/

(Other postings based on this photo are here at PP&P.)

Countdown and Beyond

A three-arched bridge.
A two-storied pagoda.
A single pond.
Nothing to do but sit.
One hour gone.
Two fish jump and disappear.
Three picnickers leave.

King of the hill?

Today's post is a copy of what I wrote over at Pictures, Poetry & Prose. The picture was provided by Brett Trafford and the prompt was: Start or end your writing today with this line... Under the spreading branches...
The picture:



Here is my offering...

I Stand Alone?

I stand alone atop this hill.

I’ve given millions of leaves to the earth over seventy-five years,
But none remain. They’ve all blown away.

I’ve shed tens of thousands of seeds, year after year,
But none have escaped the grazing animals.

I’ve seen thousands of sunrises,
But I never grow tired of them.

What am I? Alone and lonely?
No.

I am a host.

Under my spreading branches
Children have played.

Under my spreading branches
Picnics have been made.

Under my spreading branches
Young have been born.

Under my spreading branches
Old have lain down for the last time.

I am a host,
To man and beast.

I am a host,
To bird and bug.

I am a sight for sore eyes.
I am a reminder of pleasant days.

Beneath my boughs,
Life happens.

Over and over again.

I am a host.

Writers' Workshop: My 80th Birthday -- letter and poem.

I had so much fun with the pseudo-predictive piece: My 81th Birthday, I did two companion fictional pieces: A Friendly Letter and a Poem. (My Language Arts class had been studying both forms.) Here are the results:

11/20/33

Dear Joanna,

Thanks for your visit. I’m enclosing a little story I wrote, My 81st Birthday, plus a poem. Both explain what was going on in my head when you came to visit. Sorry for not getting it, and for not asking you more questions. Thanks for still loving your dad, even when he’s falling apart. Thanks for the lift.

Love,

Dad

PS: Please share this with Abby and her dear Danielle.
PPS: I have the volleyball sitting on top of my TV.



Here’s the poem:

Now I Get It!

A volleyball inscribed to Danielle.
I had no idea there was writing at all.

I didn’t see the writing.
I couldn’t read the card.
I didn’t know that getting old
would be so dog-gone hard.

But I kept on asking questions,
and I learned about the ball.
I learned about Danielle’s love,
and I began to bawl.

I may not see or hear too well,
but I’d better not just fake it.
I need to still be honest,
and admit that I don’t get it.

Dear Joanna, Abby, and Danielle,
thank you for your gifts.
Your visit, your thoughts, your words,
have given me a lift.



Love,
Great-G-pa Don

When students lie...

One thing most teachers hate is being lied to. Worse than being lied to is being lied to repeatedly. Worse than that is the student who sticks by his/her lies.

Back in May of '96 I was disappointed by such a student.

Perhaps one good thing to come out of the occasion was some insight and a poem (which I discovered today in an old folder):


A String of Lies

When I first discovered his lie,
I thought backward:
When had today's lies begun?

He said,

Teacher, I have to pee.
I have to pee real bad.
I couldn't use that restroom: the floor was wet.
I couldn't use that bathroom: I just couldn't pee.
Okay, I did use that bathroom, the second time I tried: I peed.

I thought,

He had to go so bad that it took him three tries in two different bathrooms?

And then he met the girl.
And then they made goodbyes.
And then he returned to class… until the summons came.

Well, he stuck to his lies from first to last, even with the vice-principal.

Oh, maybe he didn't kiss the girl in the hall afterward.
Oh, maybe it was just a hug.
One maybe, in a string of lies.

No admission of anything of course, and certainly no remorse.
One honest eye-witness but many denials.
A forced apology: soul-less and insincere.


When I first discovered his lie, (Three tries to pee?)
I thought backwards:
When had his lies begun?

Before today, I'd guess.
Before me, I thought.
And that helped.

And then I thought forward,
When will his lies stop?
When will the truth begin?

Or will it?
With me?
With whom?

And then I thought,
Does he believe his lies?
Does he see the string?
Does he care?

Well, wherever he goes: there he'll be.
Creating a string.
A string of lies…
And broken trust.

Until he sees.
Until he cares.
Until?

Cut back the roses...

Roses never quit blooming in Orange County, California, but they still require an annual pruning. This procedure involves cutting all the stems back to two or three foot lengths. Besides filling up three or four trash cans, there are two other downsides to this procedure: 1) Thorns and the cuts that go with them, 2) No roses for several months.





I threatened to cut my 14 rose bushes back some weeks ago, but alas other priorities gave them a reprieve: until this weekend.

I'm not without blossoms, the geraniums are bouncing back from a root trim I did three or four months ago, and one of my trees, a Pink Tabibuya is beginning to show blossoms. (At the other end of the yard, my Liquid Amber just lost the last of its leaves. Plants get confused in this part of the country.)




It has been in the 80's for the last four days or so, but we're headed back to the mid-60's by mid-week. It's even supposed to rain on Wednesday. (Oh, horrors!)

This is the kind of weather that made the soldiers who did basic training in California in preparation for WWI and WWII move to this part of the country after the war. (It just beats freezing your tail off elsewhere. Sorry.)




So, over at the One Minute Writer last week, we were given the task of writing a rhyming poem. I give you my rose inspired entry:

Cut Back the Roses

It's winter here,
not really drear.

The roses are still growing,
The lawns still need mowing.

But the roses need a rest.
Cut 'em back: that's best.

In two months they'll bloom again.
In two months they'll bloom again.

Two months.