For a new project due out next fall, I just reviewed some 25,000 digital photographs taken over the last fifteen years.
I skipped the gym.
Tomorrow, in the company of John and Andra Bell (and my husband), I will watch slender young things dance their hearts out in Bethlehem, as part of the "So You Think You Can Dance" tour.
I will wish, watching them, that I'd gone to the gym.
I woke up remembering the children to whom I once taught writing—the ones who came to my house during many summers, the ones I later joined at a garden, Chanticleer.
For many, English was a second or third language. For some, home was an un-airconditioned two rooms in the heart of West Philadelphia. One was a burgeoning actress. One had a vocabularly that utterly dwarfed mine. One was an internationally acclaimed child pianist and composer who, though already in graduate school at the age of 12 and a frequent guest on David Letterman, hadn't had, in his short life, the chance to hang out with kids his own age, or to write his ideas onto the page. One hailed from Egypt, and one hailed from Pakistan, and one was my son, oh, the stories they told, and oh, how I loved them. Truly, I loved them all, not a single exception to that rule.
Today, perhaps because my friend the literacy coach Andra Bell had written to me about the children she loves, I woke up thinking of them.
Once, in the garden, I asked the children to break into groups and to walk the paths with me—some imagining themselves an elephant attempting to shimmy down the narrow macadam, some as 17th century explorers, some as a raft of musical notes, and some as a kite whose string was caught in a tree. As teams they collected metaphors. Singularly, then, they wrote their poems.
This morning I remember my friend, Samir, and his gift of a poem to Chanticleer, and to me.
What A Kite Thinks of a Garden
I the kite
Avoid water,
Avoid elephants.
I seek out danger,
I want to know
Where everything is.
We have fears
Of lawn mowers and trees
Because we always want to be free.
We attract to color
Because we want to see
If there are more of us
Who want to be free.
Samir
If you remember me blogging about the impeccable John Bell and his "Mikado" earlier in the week, you'll remember that I made mention of his beautiful and talented wife, Andra, who happens to be the star dancer in our ballroom studio, but not only that, she's gracious and smart and thoughtful and works as a reading specialist by day. She's the one who's making sure that children will be able to navigate, to enjoy, to look forward to the books they'll find all through their lives, the stories that wait for them. She's the kind of person for whom all of us writers should be grateful.
Andra also writes terrific emails, and last night she brought me up to speed on the costuming plans where she works. Think of a nurse masquerading as a Miss Diagnose. Think of the male principal, Miss Chief. Think of the literacy coach, Miss Understood. Then put tiaras on their heads and sashes across their shoulders, and this will be school in one part of the world today.
We teach children how to grow up every day. It's a rather grand thing when children teach us to stay young.
Later tonight I'll be tangoing with my husband at the studio, holding my breath through our first spotlight number alone. After two plus years trying to learn ballroom separately, we're forging a path through song together. I don't really care how it goes, what mistakes get made. I care only that we're trying.
What an amazing, eclectic bunch of kids you taught! Is there anything you haven't done?
"Because we want to see
If there are more of us
Who want to be free."
What a miracle!
PJ, I loved my kids. They were all far, far smarter than me. I was the lucky one there. As for what I haven't done: No book would be big enough to contain the list. Never managed to make a creme brulee, never went on a safari, never went alone to Iceland, like my friend cuileann (check out her blog).
cuileann: YES! Isn't that the powerful line!
What a wonderful poem!
Wow, what a privelege to teach such a diverse group. I once had the honor of teaching science to a child whose IQ dwarfed mine. LOL
I often thought he was 40 trapped in an 11 year old body. I learned more from him than he learned from me. I will never forget him. :)
Lovely poem!
Wow. What an amazing poem. Sounds like a fun group of kids. :)
Alea, Tiddly, Em: Thank you for sharing my delight in these kids. Even these few years later I remember the zing against the heart when I read the work they were producing.