Exhaustion . . .

While this is actually the city lights along the harbor in San Diego taken from our hotel balcony as I experimented with camera settings, it is more descriptive of how I'm feeling now: exhausted. My brain feels hazy. I can't think clearly. I cried in the car on the way to the Closet from school last week -- just because a U2 song about Bono's father Bob reminded me of my dad: and it's you when I look in the mirror / and it's you when I don't pick up the phone / sometimes you can't make it on your own.I sobbed in the shower at 5:45 a.m. on a recent frosty morning when the memory of my dad starting my car on chilly mornings just so I could drive to school in the comfort of a warm car flashed through my mind like a hummingbird hovering briefly, then disappearing -- and I cried again when I thought of how Jay grabs my keys at 6:45 a.m. without knowing Daddy used to do the same thing. Uncanny.

Things like this sometimes keep me up at night. Dad has been gone seven years and sometimes I briefly forget he's not coming back.

And then I miss him even more.

. . .

What causes our brains to shift into hyperdrive when your head hits the pillow? What triggers a flood of memories to wash over us without warning? What creates sleepless nights? What precipitates tossing and turning? What quiets a tumbling mind?

And will I ever have a day when I don't miss my dad?  I'd really like to know.

Broken . . . and Beautiful

It will not always be summer; build barns. ~ Hesiod

This photo was taken as I hung out a car window with the camera (double-wrapped around my
wrist, of course) at a speed of 40 or so mph.

I couldn't resist.

Most of my life I've traveled state roads like this one in Indiana and viewed barns in various states of ill
repair. What keeps a structure like this upright during the roughest of winters? How could a barn like
this keep standing when it appears so long-abandoned and forgotten?

Why would a landowner allow a barn like this to continue living on his property, almost like a tattered
squatter living in squalid conditions? When is it time to just let the barn go?

It intriques me.

These misshapen, ramshackle structures were once functional, full of life in the form of siloing grain,
sorting sheep, or stabling horses. Maybe the family spent springs and summers tilling, planting, harvesting, threshing and dispersing food into the community from these shelters. Perhaps the barn hosted broken-down vehicles, housed cherished farm machinery, harbored young lovers in the hayloft. A barn has always had a romantic air of mystery to me . . . like the scene in Witness when Book helps with a barn raising and eventually -- almost electrifyingly -- courts Rachel in the barn to "What a Wonderful World This Would Be."

I counted barns like this one from Indiana to Walton. 31 along the roadside, to be exact.

Rustic barns tell us a story. Although they appear battered and broken, deserted and desolate, unloved and untended, barns bear witness to a simpler time when we depended more on the land surrounding them.
A structure full of spirit and strength, that stands resolute through storms, winds, snow -- and time.

Barns exude beauty despite gaping holes, rotting timber, decaying beams.

Like hope?

Happy Birthday, Jay . . .

Poem for Your Birthday

My favorite day is the day you were born . . .

Wrapped in wonder and whimsy
you entered the world
to wait for us, for me

And I cherish this day . . .

Even though I know that
you arrived as a gift from God
to your parents . . .
the gift of you ultimately re-wrapped itself
in a tattered, torn pair of jeans
grungy gray sweatshirt
and tired, worn-out sneakers
in a crowded bookstore
on the East side

Every day since then is like a birth-day
with the expectation and excitement
and unwrapping of a new gift --

you.

Bono Slept Here . . .

Joshua Tree Sunrise June, 2009

I believe in the kingdom come

then all the colours will bleed into one

bleed into one

but yes, I'm still running

you broke the bonds and you loosed the chains

carried the cross of my shame

of my shame

you know I believe it

but I still haven't found what I'm looking for

still haven't found what I'm looking for.

from Still Haven't Found What I'm Looking For . . . The Joshua Tree by U2

Music can change the world because it can change people. Bono

..........................

The photo above was the result of an "accidental" trip we took to Joshua Tree, California. I have a fascination with deserts and I'd never seen one, so I convinced Jay that we should take a side-trip on our first day and spend the night at Joshua Tree.

The drive was spectacular. Mountains unlike those in Kentucky. Rows of white windmills constantly in motion. Dry, humidless heat. And the most bizarre vegetation I've ever seen, the strangest being the branches-reaching-to-heaven Joshua trees. Thousands of them.

The sunrise in the photo was taken from the doorway to our room, Bono's room. Yes, Bono slept here. In the same bed I would be sleeping in. Usually I am not awestruck, starstruck, dumbstruck or otherwise "struck," yet I do have this affinity and fondness for Paul Hewson -- Bono -- of the band U2. Boy, October and War and the The Unforgettable Fire helped transform my relationship with music. For the first time, I connected with music that seemed unpolished and earthy. Inspiring, stripped-down yet dripping with imagery.

The 70s disco queen in me died; the rebel rocker emerged.

. . .

Oprah has a column in her magazine, One Thing I Know for Sure. There's one thing I know for sure. . . Bono is right -- music can change people.

Today's assignment in my humanities class involved listening to 8 selections of music, writing about what was heard, then sketching/painting/drawing images or pictures of what the music created in the mind of the student. Researchers who study the effects of music on human brains usually agree on one thing -- engaging or experimenting with music involves working all areas of the brain at the same time or a sort of right brain/left brain tango. I introduce this concept to students when we're studying core content terminology and, to be honest, most of them think me insane until we read an article about the effects of music. Most of them approach music with the same trepidation with which they participate in the visual arts unit. "I can't draw, Mrs. Schneider. I can't do art." Couple that with "I can't sing or play an instrument, Mrs. Schneider. All I can to is listen to my iPod." Success seems strung together with the ability to sing or play the piano. Yet one thing I know for sure . . . all students encounter music at least once a day!

So on this particular day we started with Palestrina (yesterday we tackled opera in 30 minutes, followed by a quick experiment with Gregorian chant.) Palestrina was followed by early Baroque -- Pachelbel, Bach, Handel, Vivaldi . . . 8 selections in all. I stopped anticipating complaints about four years ago because I already know what will happen. The same happens today -- students start listening, begin writing, then commence with the creating. I participate right along with them. Sometimes I explain during the "catch-up" interludes between selections why I drew what I did with the oil pastels on my own student desk. I sit among them, struggling to choose a color. During one class I guide the tense hands of a student who has some fine motor issues in an effort to coax her into relaxing her fingers. "See. Look how this glides when you stop putting pressure on the pastels." Waves emerge fluidly across the page. She smiles and nods. "What do you see in your mind?" I ask her. "Dancing clouds and music notes," she responds. I smile back and pat her hand. Then I notice some amazing watercolors emerging on the paper at the desk next to mine and give a thumbs-up. More smiles. I notice the dancing clouds student retreating back to her regular pencil and I point to the pastels. "Color," she responds. I nod and she smiles. The boy behind her has charcoal-sketched his way through Haydn's Menuetto. He hasn't worked this hard all semester.


Silence. Bliss. 50 minutes of it. In four classrooms of spring-fevered students! Not one complaint about the "awful Classical music." Not one argument that "I can't do this." Not one student refuses to try. Not one head hits a desk today.

As my kids leave the room throughout the day, the mood is upbeat and refreshing. "Are we doing this again?" someone asks. "Of course" enthusiastically and emphatically emerges from my mouth without hesitation. One piece of Scotch tape attaches each 9 X 12 masterpiece to the whiteboard. 111 masterpieces in progress. Multiply that by 8 mini-masterpieces on each piece of art paper and there are 888 responses to music!

Say what you want about kids today, but one thing I know for sure -- music changes them. The one common denominator among my students is a passion for the music they listen to and love freely, unconditionally. Harness that passion and watch the world change. That's what I'm still looking for. . .

One song at a time.

Never Part of the Picture . . .

The second night of our "Free" journey group focused on the statement of belief we have about ourselves, a statement that resonates with us the most.

What I wrote in my little orange free journal is this: I believe that I am not worth being part of relationships.

It's a lie I've believed about myself for a really long time now. It haunted me in high school. It dictated the four years I spent at WKU. And each year following college graduation I've bought into this lie that I'm an unlovable reject. It's what I expected, anticipated, even embraced.

This photo represents how I've always felt --- that I'm not quite part of the picture. Jay and I have this inside joke each time we travel somewhere. We take pictures as Jay's long arm holds the camera away from us. Inevitably I'm the one left out of the photograph -- which is ok with me. We literally have pictures of ourselves all over the United States in front of famous locations half in / half out of the frame.

And so it has been with me for the majority of my life. Never smart enough. Never athletic enough. Never popular enough. Never pretty enough. Never skinny enough. Never friendly enough. Never outgoing enough.

Never this, never that.

What I did possess was a blanket of insecurity. And I clung to it as if my name were Linus, while most who encountered me thought I was Lucy. This, according to my little orange journal, is not freedom.

One of the activities tonight resulted in encouragement given from another group member:

I encourage you to accept praise because you are worthy and this is spoken in truth. I have only gotten to get to know you recently, but I see many good qualities. I hope you will accept this praise and encouragement.

This is freedom. And I freely accept it.

And I'm Still Working . . .

After 35 years in the classroom one would think I have enough "stuff" for my students to do and that I could just coast through the next couple of years. Phone it in. Slide by.

Not me.

Anyone who knows me well will tell you that's not how I am wired. So at 3:54 PM on a Tuesday when I could be doing anything else, I am sitting at my desk in a hot classroom  researching new ways to do an old project because I am still concerned about how to engage my students who have seemed disengaged this year. At first I thought, "Well, it's me. I must be doing something wrong." I quickly realized it's not me as much as it's them -- the kids just don't want to do anything. I am competing with cell phones and airpods. No matter how enthusiastic or excited I am about a topic, it doesn't seem to matter.  

So at 3:54 on a Tuesday afternoon I'm revising lessons in an effort to spark something when we begin the music unit. The opening topic is "Why Music Matters."

I'm not so sure they know the "why" behind music. All of them listen to music daily, yet I'm not so sure they understand what it is that music does for them. After surfing several sites and reading some fascinating research, I have been caught up in the whys behind music. The information is more than I'll be able to digest in a single sitting and I realize at some point I'll just need to stop. How can I get my students to dive into reading with the same passion I have for learning? How can I explain how intricately our brains are wired and music is an important part of development in young brains? How can I share my fascination with Alzheimer's research that indicates the importance of music in the lives of patients? How can I share how music can help students engage in stress relief? 

The topics are endless, but the question is the same -- how to get my students engaged.

I am also intrigued by "walk-through" feedback which indicates students are not engaged. Just how does someone on a 10-minute visit know that? More importantly, can the person explain to me how to get my students more engaged? That's the million dollar question.

How?

Being Authentic . . .

Honesty and transparency make you vulnerable.
Be honest and transparent anyway.

~ Mother Teresa

For all of you fashionistas (and those of you who are not) -- this is a REAL, authentic Louis Vuitton bag. It belongs to my mother-in-law, an unpretentious person who just wanted to buy the real thing with her own money and she did. As someone in her early sixties and un-retired, she still works hard on a daily basis as a medical transcriptionist and doesn't frivously spend her money. So it didn't seem odd to me that she purchased the bag; Mom spent a great deal of time thinking about it and living with the decision before she finally selected this one.

And the reason I took a photo of Jay holding it? To post in the store with the caption "THIS Is a REAL Louis Vuitton" to show my consignors who attempt to pass off a fake as real -- as if I've never held the true, authentic purse myself.

It's amazing how many people will bring me a faux purse, for example a Coach or Dooney bag, and attempt to convince me that it's really worth $300. "What do you mean you sold my real Coach for $20! I paid $400 for it!"

Come on. Get real. I see the "authentic-looking" registration inside that declares it was "Made in China." I see the glued edges of the lifelike "leather." Just this week a moderately good LV fake appeared in the store and I'm 99.99% sure someone paid over $100 for it. Upon closer examination I could detect the errors in workmanship, feel the inferior texture of the shell and ascertain that the hardware was just poorly-coated metal. It's further unfathomable that one of my consignors attempts to convince me she's paid over $700 for a real Louis Vuitton with no documentation, schlepped into the store in a tattered plastic Target bag to consign. A real Louis comes with a protective cover!

We're a lot like these women who want me believe they have the real thing when the handbag is an imposter. We spend hours convincing our friends that we're authentic -- the real thing -- when we're really fake. On the outside we might look like a $1000 Botega bag when we're actually the shoddy knock-off Birken. We might glitz it up like a Judith Lieber evening bag when we're nothing more than a dimestore bedazzled K-Mart bluelight special.

The lesson that Jay and I have been learning over the past few weeks of our Free journey at CR is this: it's always much better to be authentic like Mom's Louis Vuitton handbag. We are striving to be real people who connect to others in transparent, honest relationships without pretense and phoniness. We're not perfect -- far from it -- but we're discovering that our real friends accept us as we are, just as God unconditionally loves and accepts us. For too many years both of us worked hard at trying to measure up to what we thought others expected. All it made us was shoddy knock-offs of who we were meant to be. We'd rather be originals. Authentic. Determined not to pass ourselves off as anything less than what we truly are.

And it is incredibly freeing to live like that.