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trust the flow

February 23rd, 2016
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I hope she climbed onto the rainbow

Aunt Pru was my namesake, my mother’s sister, and she died of lung cancer fifteen years ago this month.  I’m remembering her.  Our powerful relationship through the years was mostly good, but we had serious confrontations, too.  This story is about the mystery unfolding for me at end of her life.

Aunt Pru was a master gardener, and her yard showed her loving efforts with loads of colorful flowers.

The day she left on a rainy Saturday, my seven year-old son, Joey and I drove over to her house that afternoon to say goodbye. I shared a memory about how my cousin and I sang the folk song, “500 hundred miles’ as a duet when we were young, and how Aunt Pru loved to hear us sing it. I wondered whether or not my cousin and I would sing it for her one last time, at her deathbed.

“How many miles to Heaven?” Joey asked me. I still don’t know an answer.

Heading down the hill toward San Rafael, we felt enchanted to witness a massive complete rainbow that extended across the sky, and it seemed to end above my aunt’s house.

She was unconscious when we arrived, and I sort of remember singing with my cousin.  I do remember taking my aunt’s hand, saying, “There’s a rainbow over your house right this moment. I want you to get on it.”  She passed away later that day, and we still feel her loss.

As I drove to my teaching job the following Monday morning, I was thinking of Aunt Pru, missing her.  I also remembered about how much I love lacey old-fashioned white iris and their delicate beauty.  I earnestly wished to see some of those beautiful iris on my commute, but didn’t see any, so I thought no more about it.

Five hours later after teaching my last class, I stood at the art room sink, cleaning up after students.  One of my students burst into the room, holding an entire blue iris, complete with roots, that he plucked out of someone’s yard on the way to school.  He walked over to me and handed it over without any explanation.

In church the following Sunday, my rector gave a sermon. He started it by saying,

“The goddess of the rainbow is the iris.”

Everything lined up for me when he said that.  The warm presence of life, the flow of cosmic energy I do not understand. I don’t have to understand.

Truth does pass all understanding.

 

the coolest

February 16th, 2016

 

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How about Jerry Colonna?

My dad worked in the radio business, and he brought home a lifesize plastic fake jukebox record player, a fabulous little space man who came to live with us.  Its silver plastic chrome lit up bright red when I plugged it in next to the green couch, one speaker blaring. Continue reading “the coolest” »

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working on growing up

February 9th, 2016

let the light in

Constantly fixing myself gets old, and I’m trying to let go of always trying to ‘be better’.   I’m sick of focusing on what doesn’t work in my life.  I’m tired of feeling like a victim from life’s struggle.  Let’s go with new thinking! Continue reading “working on growing up” »

Teachers deserve respect

February 8th, 2016

I love Taylor Mali and his fabulous response to what teachers make. It’s true. Teachers train hard for a career which prepares them to work with students and develop teaching skills. Teachers need support for what and how we teach. We need to be heard.

Students have different schools these days than before. Corporations, like Educational Testing Services control a tremendous amount of how a teacher teaches, and politicians are taking over with their philosophies.

For example, today’s American Standardized tests in English focus more on non-fiction than fiction. This is a crucial shift. Think about this.

A teacher on NPR radio opinion said it plainly this morning, “Out with Shakespeare, in with the New York Times.” Students are not being taught to respect their imaginations in school much anymore. Current politics has succeeded in ‘taking the teacher out of teaching’.

The teacher told about his students responding to Tim O’Brien’s “The Things They Carried” in a more compelling way than if they read historical documents about the Viet Nam war. More than ever, students are taught to pass a test, instead of how to grow their character.

O’Brien wrote a collection of short stories about a platoon of American soldiers in the Vietnam War. His third book is based upon his experiences as a soldier in the 23rd Infantry Division, 3rd Platoon. The powerful memoir vividly captures personal stories, but it is considered fiction. It took O’Brien over twenty-five years to write his memoir, relying upon a technique called metafiction, or verisimilitude. The reader becomes more involved with events because they feel real, deep connections with real characters as if they are true. These are the connections that truly teach about the Viet Nam war, not just statistics.

With non-fiction, we might get dates and events, but we do not get emotions that linking fiction brings to history. So we can’t use O’Brien, because it’s ‘fiction?’ Which content changes the world? The facts or the people? Does studying for a test make us compassionate individuals?

Someone once said, “Genius is the person who makes connections” and fiction can do that for each one of us. Students can read O’Brien and become part of the Viet Nam story. That is learning. Students learn to love reading and learn about their past, their humanity.

I respect teachers. We know what we are doing, and most of us do it well. We want students to remember both facts and use their imagination. How we learn does change the world. Student by student. Not test by test.

Our students deserve to go deeper into themselves with a blend of fiction and nonfiction, to learn who they are in American History and have it mean something.

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Why we’re different from our parents

January 19th, 2016
TV was as real as a relative who came to live with us

TV was as real as a relative who came to live with us

TV was the most important visitor in my family.  I was five when we got our first one, and my father made local TV commercials.  He once drove the family Pontiac onto a television lot so he could slap its front fender to punctuate his pitch:  “Now YOU can trade this jalopy for a new Chevrolet from Ellis Brooks, on the corner of Bush and Van Ness.”  I remember watching and thinking, “What a star!” as his voice rang out on our tiny little black and white TV screen up high on a table in our living room. Continue reading “Why we’re different from our parents” »

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honest color

January 5th, 2016
heavenly colors

heavenly colors

My parents found a San Francisco apartment on Lincoln Avenue when our family moved from Japan.  It was a cold second-floor dump near Golden Gate Park.  My father smiled and waved into the super-eight movie camera, wearing his overcoat, looking like Cary Grant, a strong nose, dark eyebrows, and brown eyes.  My mother beams, looking sexy, with blue eyes and brown hair.  A friendly mounted policeman lifts me onto his sorrel horse and rides me around, wearing a green car coat, brimmed hat tied with a bow over my golden hair. Continue reading “honest color” »

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sitting here is hard

December 22nd, 2015
it's not easy to sit

it’s not easy to sit

There is a time and place, and I have reached a new time and a new mental place.  Something shifted.  At my tender age, it’s a miracle that I can still change. Continue reading “sitting here is hard” »

coursing blood

December 15th, 2015
imaginary map

imaginary map of the world

Think of our blood and how old it is.  I traveled to South Carolina last November, and traced genealogy back six generations. I found Columbia’s First Presbyterian Church and their graves were next to the main street, which means the relatives must have been one of the first families buried there when the church was built. Continue reading “coursing blood” »

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truth and beauty

December 8th, 2015
someday I will make beauty

someday I will make the most beautiful art in the world

Thinking about the relationship between what is beautiful and what is true, reminds me of one of my high school students long ago.

John was super bright, but stifled when it came to accepting his artistic talent and his brains. He was the type of boy who would rather suffer consequences from doing nothing, instead of making an effort on any given project. That’s why he was at our school for at-risk students.  I loved his poetry when he did write in English, and his way of expressing himself moved me deeply. Continue reading “truth and beauty” »

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Why I wrote a memoir

November 10th, 2015
I call her Lindy

I call her Lindy

Nobody expected my best friend Lindy’s crack-up to last her lifetime, plucked and placed behind double locked doors in various California mental hospitals.  Nothing I do changes what happened to her.  Her six other sisters didn’t wind up that way.   Lindy never learned to function, outside of grabbing a dinner tray, going through a meal line, and returning for dessert. Continue reading “Why I wrote a memoir” »

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